





61 




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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



REMINISCENCES OF 



Henry Clay Barnabee 



Being an Attempt to Account for His Life, with 
Some Excuses for His Professional Career 




Edited by 

GEORGE LEON VARNEY 



"What's in a name? For the very targe majority, nothing 
whatsoever. As for the jew immortal ones, they were not born to 
die. because their holders came upon earth to do that which placed 
them as suns in the firmament of great deeds." — Barnabee 



BOSTON 

Chappie Publishing Company, Ltd. 

1913 






COPYRIGHT 1913 

Chapple Publishing Company, Ivtd. 
Boston 



K 






#S-o 



©CLA3516 

si* Si * 



2fa thp iHpnwrg of 
MY BELOVED WIFE 

WHO 

For Over Fifty Years 

WAS 

My "Guiding Star" 

and "Leading Lady" 



A Card of Thanhs 



TV/f R- BARNABEE acknowledges here, and 
•*■ ■*■ does so with a proper feeling of gratitude, 
the kindness of Mr. Henry Tyrrell of the 
Sunday Department, New York World, and 
wishes to state that the poem, "Parrhasius 
and the Captive," printed in this volume, is 
reproduced from Shoemaker's Best Selections, 
No. 3, by permission of The Penn Publishing 
Company, Philadelphia. 



CONTENTS 



Chapter I — The Cradle by the Sea 

Chapter II — The Early Dawn 

Chapter III — Historic Inns and Old Homes 

Chapter IV — Schooldays 

Chapter V — First Steps 

Chapter VI — Still Lingering in Old "Porchmouth" 

Chapter VII — Early Visit to Boston 

Chapter VIII — Tuning Up and Playing 

Chapter IX — Customers, Commuters and Costumes 

Chapter X — Waiting at the Church 

Chapter XI — First Operatic Awakenings 

Chapter XII — Harking Back to the Boston Theatre 

Chapter XIII — Awakening of Critical Appreciations 

Chapter XIV— "Too Late for the Train" 

Chapter XV — With William Warren at the Boston 

Museum 
Chapter XVI— "The Cork Leg" and "The Patent 

Arm" 
Chapter XVII — The Peace Jubilees and the Apollo 

Club 
Chapter XVIII— Melody in Music 
Chapter XIX — Are You a Mason? 



CONTENTS— Continued 

Chapter XX — Dickens, Thackeray and Other Worthies 
Chapter XXI — A Patchwork of Song and Story 
Chapter XXII — Invading the West 
Chapter XXIII— The Good Old Summer Times 
Chapter XXIV— Bound for "Yurrip" 
Chapter XXV— Doing Dear Old "Lunnon" 
Chapter XXVI— A Short Trip Through "Yurrip" 
Chapter XXVII — Birth of the Boston Ideals 
Chapter XXVIII— "H. M. S. Pinafore" 
Chapter XXIX — Rounding Out a Repertoire 
Chapter XXX — The Ideals During the Ober Regime 
Chapter XXXI — Fond Recollections 
Chapter XXXII — The Original and Only Bostonians 
Chapter XXXIII— To the Golden Gate 
Chapter XXXIV— "Robin Hood" 
Chapter XXXV— Touring in Semi-"Grand" 
Chapter XXXVI — The Oberammergau Passion Play 
Chapter XXXVII— "The Serenade" and Evening 

Shadows 
Chapter XXXVIII — Friendly Memories 



TO THE READER 

I DEEM it hardly necessary for me to introduce to you 
the "Grand Old Man" whose name has had a most 
familiar sound in the musical and operatic annals of 
this country. And yet for me to hesitate to avail myself of 
the opportunity of uttering a few words before the curtain 
is drawn, would but be making light of a debt which I owe 
our artist and friend. 

Today as I present his beloved name, the doors of the 
years back of us swing upon their hinges. From the low- 
vaulted chambers fragrant memories rise like sweet incense 
out of the smouldering embers of hallowed fires; stars that 
have long since been devoid of their brilliancy twinkle again 
in far-off heavens; silent temples that have mingled their 
dust with the ancient edifices of Rome and Athens are sil- 
houetted in space, and the shadowy forms of those who 
once crowded their prosceniums come singing and dancing 
to the strains of resurrected songs. 

I see, as in a vision, a procession of immortal bards and 
masters; I see a company of artists pass by in glorious array; 
I see vast assemblages shouting, beckoning and applauding; 
I hear celestial songs and I hear voices eloquent and pathetic 
ringing down dark corridors; I stand in the midst of buried 
hopes and dreams, and I touch the withered garlands that 
hang over crushed joys and tarnished expectations; I reach 
forth as a child to pick up a flower that's tossed by some 
admiring friend, but, — lo and behold, as though its petals 
were sacred to human caress, down falls the thin veil that 
separates the past from the present and I am caught in the 
folds of the darkened divide. 



TO THE READER 

No, it's not a dream! The name of Henry Clay Barnabee 
is the magical "open sesame" to the days and nights that 
lie buried beneath the sunshine and shadows of fallen years. 
Like the Ancient Mariner, the venerable exponent of the 
golden age of song and story takes us and leads us from the 
noises of the struggling present to where the mists and rain- 
bows gather o'er the slumbering past. 

And now, before we proceed on our memorable journey, 
allow me to say that nearly eighty long and eventful summers 
have passed through the hour glass of time since Mr. Barna- 
bee first saw the peep of dawn. Think what it all means. 
Think of the advancements and achievements that have 
been made in the arts and sciences since his chalice was 
first inverted ; think how the geographical world has changed ; 
think of the growth in the religious, scientific, medical, 
literary and historical fields; think of the losses, the crosses 
and the piles of pillaged plunder; think of the fall of king- 
doms and the clash of arms; think of the cost of human en- 
deavor and the price of our National laws; think if you will 
of the few honored names that have found a place on our 
lips, and think of the shafts reared "to our unknown dead." 
Yea, think of a thousand of things, too numerous to mention, 
that have had their birth and inception since the cradle gave 
us the namesake of Henry Clay. After you have done all 
this — searching records and studying cold statistics — and 
have scanned the present horizon, you have some faint idea 
of what Henry Clay Barnabee could point out to us or 
assist Clio in recording on the pages between these covers. 

But thanks be it, Mr. Barnabee, the sponsor, the father, 
the head, the guide and the pride of all Bostonians, does not 
make any effort to present us with such a voluminous 
record of historical facts and figures. His own particular 
field has been in the amusement world; and in the following 
pages he has simply attempted to place in our hands his 



TO THE READER 

last and final offering — the story of his own brilliant career 
and a record of some of the personal peculiarities of a host 
of noted singers, musicians and artists who have been his 
associates for over half a century. 

To you, as one of the vast number who shall accept these 
"immortal remains," I have but to say that the optimistic, 
humorous and quaintly philosophical traits which have en- 
deared Mr. Barnabee to the world so long are constantly in 
evidence throughout the work, and the language is sub- 
stantially his own. 

I refrain from placing here any slight tribute from my 
feeble pen. I have left it for others, more capable than my- 
self, to speak of the worth of Mr. Barnabee as a reader, a 
singer and a comedian. To me Henry Clay Barnabee wears 
no fancy costumes — he stands before my limelight as a dear 
friend from whom I have received many warm personal atten- 
tions. He is known to many as a prince of good fellows, and, 
in the fraternal spirit, as a brother; but I know him only as 
a man, the -kind of a man that I would call a gentleman. 
When his final curtain falls, hundreds of his admirers and 
acquaintances will forget him as a fellow-player and singer. 
In that hour when his voice will be hushed, and the stage 
will be darkened and the music will die away, of him it 
may be well said, aside from his great place and merit as a 
musician and friend, that 

His life was gentle, and the elements 

So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up 

And say to all the world, "This was a Man I" 

And now, dear reader, allow me to introduce to you that 
sterling character who has played many parts, but none 
better than the role of the Man — Henry Clay Barnabee. 

George Leon Varney. 






Reminiscences of 

Henry Clay Barnabee 

Chapter I 



THE CRADLE BY THE SEA 

BIRTH OF THE ONLY BARNABEE. — BIRTH OF OLD HOME 
CELEBRATIONS. — BIRTH OF FAMOUS SONS AND DAUGH- 
TERS. BIRTH OF BARNABEE IN FICTION. 

"My heart 'mid all changes, wherever I roam, 
Ne'er loses its love for the cradle at home." 

— Henry Clay Barnabee. 

ON THE fourteenth of November, 1833, the day 
following the birth of Edwin Booth at Belair, 
Maryland, occurred the event which made a 
certain antique dwelling-house in Portsmouth, 
New Hampshire, marked in that town's annals as 
"the home of Willis Barnabee, father of Henry Clay 
Barnabee, the famous singer." 

Someone has remarked that when good Dame 
Nature ushered the Booth baby and the Barnabee 
baby into the world with but a few hours between the 
one and the other, she was only serving the prophets 
with another exemplification of the ancient proverb: 
"Mirth follows closely at the heels of Tragedy." If 



2 REMINISCENCES OF 

this be true and in accord with the divine ordering of 
careers, Edwin Booth — (Alas! poor Yorick!) — was 
cradled to become a tragedian, and, as such, his life's 
work was to be the task of portraying the serious side 
of human nature — of interpreting the mad scenes, of 
strutting the stage as a hero robed in royal bearing, and 
of striving to win the laurels due a real dramatic genius. 
And what of the other babe? Well, I was he, and, 
in obedience to the Father's will, I was born — if the 
above declaration holds true — to be known as a dis- 
ciple of Comedy, to be respected as a messenger of 
good cheer, to be hailed as a warbler of joy and gladness, 
and to be remembered as one who tried to convince 
Tragedy that the world is a house of mirth instead of 
a castle of skull and crossbones. 

"Strong in the faith that what is to be 
Of good or ill will be well for me" — 

must have been the couplet penned for our individual 
belief. At any rate it has always been mine; and Booth, 
as we all know, believed and trusted in a Power that 
shapes the course of mankind to its own decrees. His 
large and noble faith in all that is and is to be told him 
in his sphere what it has taught me in mine, viz.: — 
that after all the tempests and storms of life have 
been encountered, death, even at its worst, must be 
the only perfect peace. 

The greatest Hamlet of the American stage passed 
away June 7, 1893, leaving on this side of the fallen 
curtain scores of fellow-players, many of whom still 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 3 

mourn his loss, but who, like myself in turn, must 
follow him through the darkened valley, where, as 
Lord Lytton says — 

. . . the stars go down 
To rise upon some fairer shores. 

Having survived the allotted threescore years and 
ten, and my mind at ease as to what the future has in 
store for me, I am going to retrace my steps to the little 
cradle for the purpose of reviewing my own career. 
And as I journey along, I am going to pick up the 
broken threads of the past and weave them into a 
garland which, I hope, shall endure as the immortal 
remains of a long and eventful life. 

As Portsmouth, the place of my nativity, has been 
gathering the moss of quaint, curious and memorable 
associations from the advent of the early settlers in 
1623 to the signing of the Russo-Japanese Treaty in 
1905, I ought to assist her as best I can by adding a 
few "pickings from the wayside" to her cherished 
collections. And, dear reader, as my mind reverts 
back, reviving with tender and soul-subduing influence 
the memory of past scenes of pleasures, I must admit 
that the word Portsmouth spells out the height and 
depth, length and breadth of many tender memories. 

It was in Portsmouth that the "Old Home Week" 
custom, now prevalent among New England towns and 
elsewhere, originated, more than half a century ago. 
I know, because I was in the grand historical pageant, 
sitting cross-legged on one of the floats, dressed as a 



4 REMINISCENCES OF 

Turk, at a midsummer temperature of a hundred 
degrees in the shade and trying to smoke dried penny- 
royal in a hubble-bubble, which made me so ill that 
I have never since indulged in the weed or even had 
the ambition to "make good" as a disciple of Sir 
Walter Raleigh. 

Among the scores of the distinguished sons whom 
the Old Home Weeks used to round up in Portsmouth 
were included: Daniel Webster, Jeremiah Mason, 
Ichabod Bartlett, John Mitchell Sewell, Thomas Bailey 
Aldrich, James T. Fields, of Boston celebrity in connec- 
tion with the "Corner Bookstore," the Atlantic Monthly 
magazine and the publishing business generally; Harriet 
McEwen Kimball, poetess; Benjamin P. Shillaber, 
creator of the inimitable "Mrs. Partington"; and the 
Rev. Thomas Starr King, whose father before him had 
preached in Portsmouth's venerable Universalist 
church. And there was one of our town celebrities, 
who, though his name be not inscribed on history's 
ample page, deserves to go on record as one of the 
sturdy pioneers of the "simplified spelling," for his 
dinner address of welcome to the illustrious visitors, 
as sent in manuscript to the Journal printing-office to 
be set up in type, opened with the undying phrase: — 

.... "We feel by your presents here" .... 

More than one great man who neglected to be 
brought in as a "distinguished son" by the stork, has 
sought later to remedy the oversight by taking up his 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 5 

residence there or managing some way or other to be 
rung in as an "adopted son." 

If Portsmouth, as a naval station, cannot claim 
Admiral Dewey, of Manila fame, as one of her sons, 
she has at least a kind of first mortgage upon him as 
a son-in-law. It was in Portsmouth that young Lieu- 
tenant George Dewey married his first wife, in 1867. 
She was a Miss Susie Goodwin, daughter of Hon. 
Ichabod Goodwin, War Governor of New Hampshire. 

Mrs. Goodwin, who was a grande dame of the ultra- 
Brahmin caste, never quite reconciled herself to re- 
ceiving the obscure young naval officer into "our set." 
Although he had served with credit, if not renown, 
throughout the Civil War, he seemed to bear no brevet- 
mark of future greatness, and the proud mother-in- 
law learned to ignore his existence. But the whirligig 
of time brought its revenge; and when, on the second 
of May, 1898, the news was cabled from Manila to old 
Portsmouth and all the rest of the world that Admiral 
Dewey had won the greatest sea victory since Trafalgar, 
it was really a pity that Mrs. Goodwin, the uncom- 
promising Mrs. Goodwin, was not alive to hear of it. 

Like all good mothers, my native city has ever re- 
ceived her guests with open arms and warm heart; 
and in doing so, she not only has honored the occasions 
and the strangers within her gates, but highly honored 
herself as well. In her autobiography, we read that 
John Hancock, Elbridge Gerry, Edward Rutledge and 
other signers of the Declaration of Independence sat 



6 REMINISCENCES OF 

at her table. Among the other chief celebrities who 
have paid her a visit have been General Knox, Marquis 
Lafayette, Louis Philippe and his brothers, the Dues 
de Montpensier and Beaujolais, Marquis de Chastellux, 
John Paul Jones, Commodore Isaac Hull, and — the 
greatest of them all — President George Washington. 
Even the one famous Smith — Captain John Smith — 
whose name is linked with that of an Indian maid, 
dropped anchor at that point where now shine the 
lights of one of the safest and most commodious 
harbors in the United States.* 

So generally recognized has the hospitality of Ports- 
mouth become known that when in 1898 the smoke of 
Santiago Harbor, Cuba, had lifted itself, seventeen 
hundred prisoners, subjects of Spain, including Rear 
Admiral Pascual Cervera, were picked up by Uncle 
Sam and placed on my mother's doorstep. But her 



* Thomas Bailey Aldrich pays a tribute to his native city's greatness — 
past greatness I might add — when he says, "Portsmouth remains the 
interesting widow of a once very lively commerce. Formerly it turned out 
the best ships, as it did the ablest ship captains, in the world. There were 
families in which the love for blue waters was an immemorial trait. The 
boys were always sailors; a gray-headed shipmaster, in each generation, 
retiring from the quarter-deck to the homestead, while a boy of fourteen 
took the hereditary place before the mast, confronting the salt spray and 
gale which had blasted against his sire and grandsire." From "An Old 
Town By the Sea." 

It is interesting to note, in connection with this line, that some of the 
most powerful vessels afloat have weighed anchor in Portsmouth's waters, 
and, on more than one occasion, the entire Atlantic Squadron has steamed 
into her harbor. In relation to ship-building, she is certainly entitled to 
highest praise. The "Ranger," the vessel believed to have been the first 
ship to fly the stars and stripes, was built by her; "Franklin," the first ship 
to unfurl the flag of a United States Admiral in European waters, had her 
keel laid in her Navy Yard; and the famous sloop-of-war "Kearsarge," the 
"Sartee" and the "Saranac" have been among her distinguished water- 
babies. Editor. 




MR. BARNABEE OFF THE STAGE AT DIFFERENT PERIODS OF HIS CAREER 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 7 

cradle was not too full to receive them. Theodore Low 
pays a most deserving compliment to her lovable ways, 
in connection with this incident, when he says, "Great 
was the surprise, when the time came to send the 
prisoners back to their native country, to find that it 
was hard to drive them away, so well had they been 
fed, clothed and treated." 

But the prisoners of war had to go home, despite 
their longings to remain with my brothers. When the 
final roll was called on the twelfth of September, it 
was found that thirty-seven of them were missing. 
Where were they? Wounded and stricken when 
placed in the cradle, these silent warriors of the crushed 
armada had fallen asleep, and 

All the king's men, 

And all the royal summons, 
Could not call them back again. 

On a knoll at Camp Long, they are still asleep; and 

as the grasses wave gently over their eternal resting 

place, the magic lights of Portsmouth keep a sentinel's 

watch, and the beat of the old ocean on the rocky shore 

"makes music wild and sweet." 

Verily, their first "coming" had been their last "go- 
ing" home. 

Speaking of "going home," someone among us may 
ask, "Who originated the idea of calling the children 
of Portsmouth home again?" The Portsmouth Times 
makes an effort to settle the question when it says: 



8 REMINISCENCES OF 

"Who originated the idea is a question of dispute 
even to this late day, but history says that the first 
real movement looking towards a gathering or home- 
coming of the sons was made by Messrs. Theodore 
Harris, Robert Harris and Albert Remick as early as 
March, 1853, in the store in which the former was em- 
ployed as clerk. Finding their consultations inter- 
rupted by frequent callers, they soon changed their 
headquarters to Col. Ezra Lincoln's office in Court 
Street. Here they came together day after day in 
their spare moments to talk over the scheme. The idea 
was taken up by B. P. Shillaber, Esq., of Boston, a 
newspaper man by profession, and by his writings the 
attention of sons and daughters all over the country 
was attracted. 

"It was the intention to hold these reunions every 
ten years. Because of the War none was held in 1863, 
and the second home-coming was in 1873, twenty years 
after the first. This was the biggest kind of a success, 
the city's council alone appropriating ten thousand 
dollars. In 1883 the elaborate plans for the third 
reunion were spoiled by rain. It rained all day and 
rained hard, all outdoor exercises had to be given up. 
Only the literary exercises were carried out according 
to the program. For some reason no interest was mani- 
fest in 1893 or 1903 and the idea of another return of 
the sons was looked upon as lost. 

"It remained for Councilman E. Percy Stoddard to 
revive the home-coming in 1910. It was an off year, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 9 

to be sure, but this son of Portsmouth had a 'bee in 
his bonnet' and he fought until the sting became 
general." 

The result of Mr. Stoddard's efforts! Well, my 
reader, if you were fortunate enough to have been 
present in the "old town by the sea," July 4, 1910, 
you know the rest. It was truly the biggest day in all 
of Portsmouth's history. Aside from being the 124th 
anniversary of American libertj% it was the class 
day, so to speak, of over two thousand patriotic boys 
and girls who, as Rev. Dr. Burroughs informs us, 
"assembled to refresh their memories and regale their 
hearts with the scenes of their childhood; with the 
schools where they acquired the elements of knowl- 
edge; with the fields, where they gathered the love of 
nature; with the abodes, precious for parental en- 
dearments; and with the temples, where they first 
lisped their public devotions and learned the lessons 
of divine truth." 

Thus you know the reasons why the children of old 
Portsmouth took affectionate interest, pride and grati- 
tude, and returned home when the call was made. 
And need I say that I was among the first to respond 
to the appeal? 

To assist in home-coming jubilees twenty, ten, and 
nearly thirty-four years apart, is not every man's 
privilege. Such, however, has been mine. In 1853 
an enthusiastic participant in the preliminaries, one of 
the cheering throng who made the air resound with 



10 REMINISCENCES OF 

the welcome home of throbbing hearts, following the 
boys and the bands, as they made their circuit of the 
well-remembered places — the Old Mill Bridges, the 
Old South, under the magnificent decorations on 
Market Street and elsewhere, sitting in the tent and 
listening to the eloquence of Starr King, James T. 
Fields, B. P. Shillaber, Ichabod Goodwin, and a 
host of others; in 1873, the reader, by request of the 
poet, of the beautiful verses of Albert Laighton; in 
1883, the medium of communication between Thomas 
Bailey Aldrich and the High School Alumni; lastly, 
one of the honored speakers of the day, July 4, 1910. 

And yet this record of the meetings of the sons and 
daughters would be incomplete if I failed to mention 
the reunion which took place on Thursday evening, 
February 16, 1911, at the Hotel Bellevue, Boston, when 
Portsmouth's children living in Massachusetts met 
for a few brief hours. On this auspicious occasion, I 
again offered the "Ode of Welcome" written by Mr. 
Laighton. 

Pardon me, but the Portsmouth Times in speaking 
of this last meeting says, among other things: 

"Barnabee, though now nearly seventy-eight years old, 
still has much of the vigor of 1873, when at the age of forty 
he read this brilliant production at the reunion of that year 
in the mammoth tent at Portsmouth on July 4th, and 
prefaced it by the following: 

" 'Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: — To other lips 
belong the utterances of wisdom and wit which the reminis- 
cences of this glad day of jubilee will call forth; mine the 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 11 

privilege of acting as interpreter for my friend, whose mod- 
esty is only equalled by his ability. [Applause.] Glad shall 
I be if my voice can give proper expression to the kindling 
words of our home poet, whose welcoming ode I now read.' " 

WELCOME HOME! 

Where robed in beauty vale and upland lie, 

Bathed in the glory of this summer sky; 

Where evermore 

The beat of ocean on the rocky shore 

Makes music wild and sweet; 

And ever free, the fleet 

Blue river winds by isle and bay; 
O brothers, wandering far for many a year, 
O sisters dear, 

We welcome you today! 
O happy bells, ring out! 

Each breast responsive thrills: 

Ye valleys and ye hills 
Give back our greeting shout! 
While strains of sweetest music charm the air, 

And starry banners float in skies of blue; 
And blossoming arch and wreathed column bear 

The heart's endearing language warm and true. 

What recollections throng, 

What tender thoughts arise, 

As here, beneath your native skies, 

Once more ye stand! 
Here live the echoes of your cradle song; 
This is the fairy realm of childhood's time; 
Youth's blest Arcadian clime; 
The dream of manhood's prime; 

The shrine of age; th' Enchanted Land, 

By airs of memory gently fanned; 



12 REMINISCENCES OF 

The dearest spot beneath the heaven's blue dome — 

This, this is home. 

Home, with its streams and woods; 

Its cool, green solitudes 

In sylvan places; 
Its favorite haunts remembered long and well; 
Home, where dear kindred dwell, 

And friendly faces 
Reflect our own, and kindly greeting give; 
Where many a loved one lies in dreamless rest 
In yonder churchyard by the moaning wave; 
Ah! nevermore 
By sea or shore 

Shall hand in hand be joined, or lip to lip be prest; 
Still they are with us here, 
We feel their presence near; 
They speak to us and soul to soul replies; 
For love, love never dies; 
Love is a flower that evermore shall live. 
Of heavenly birth, 
It knows no blight of earth, 
And blossoms even on the dusty grave; 
Home, with its memories sweet, its hopes, its fears, 
Its gladness and its tears. 

O fair, sweet Mother, cradled by the sea, 

Thy wandering children rest 

Once more upon thy breast 

Where they have longed to be! 

Where'er they roamed, beneath what alien skies 

Their lot was cast, 
Their thoughts still turned to thee, 
And homesick tears have gathered to their eyes; 
Thou wert the star whose ray 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 13 

Shone o'er the dusky pathway of the past, 
And led them where their fondest treasures lay. 

And we who never from thy side have strayed; 

Whose hearts to thine are ever closely laid, 

In thy dear name we welcome them again; 

Our hearts go out to meet them; 

Our hands stretch forth to greet them, 

Our lips rehearse once more 

The welcome song of yore, 

And answering lips repeat the joyful strain. 

And they, thy noble sons, 
The brave, true-hearted ones, 

Who fought in Freedom's name, 
For country and for thee 
Amid this festal scene 
We keep their memories green; 

Whether upon the blood-stained field they fell, 
Or where the battle-flame 
Lit up the wreck upon the heaving sea; 
Whether they languished in the weary cell, 
Or, worn with pain, they turned to thee for rest, 
And died upon thy breast; 
Where'er for us they perished 
Each patriot soul is cherished; 
Where'er their graves are found, 
To us 'tis hallowed ground; 
And there on each returning spring 
The sweetest flowers we bring. 
O brothers, wandering far for many a year, 

0, sisters dear, 

In this our glad reunion 
Our hearts as one are beating! 



14 REMINISCENCES OF 

One joyous impulse every breast elates; 
And though the parting word be spoken 
The spell shall not be broken; 

The warm and heartfelt greeting, 
The sweet communion; 
The charm that rests on river, sea and shore, 
The hue of sky and plain. 

These, in the mystic wreath that Memory twines, 
Shall be the fadeless flowers; 
And thoughts of these glad hours 
Shall blend with visions of a happier sphere 
Than that which holds us here; 
A summer land that lieth far away; 
Where late or soon 
Our paths shall join again 
Divided nevermore. 
A city measured with the golden reed, 
Whose walls are jasper, and whose gates 
(Each gate a pearl) close not by day, 

And whose foundations broad 
With precious stones are bright; 
A home that hath no night, 
Nor any need 
Of sun or moon, 
But where forever shines 

The glory of the Lord. 

I seem to be one of the connecting links between the 
past and the present, and I am proud of it. Not indeed 
as the Irishman said, "A man should be proud of the 
place of his nativity, whether he was born there or not," 
— but proud because I am from Portsmouth, of Ports- 
mouth and for Portsmouth. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 

The designation of "the only Barnabee," in my 
latter professional years tagged upon me by kind friends 
and enthusiastic press-agents, was in truth a legitimate 
inheritance from my dear father, Willis Barnabee. I 
have never encountered the name thus spelled either 
before his time or since — with but one notable excep- 
tion. That exception is found in the quaint old work 
of Seventeenth century Latinity known as "Barnabee 
Itinerarium" or "Barnabee's Journal" — a rollicking, 
rambling Bacchanalian chronicle in rhyme, supposed 
to be of the renowned literary progeny of one Richard 
Brathwait, a contemporary of Shakespeare. 

And I might remark that the extraordinary thing 
about my English namesake's itinerary is that, like 
my own, it took in a wide circuit of one-night stands, 
full of such startling coincidences as the following: 

Thence to Gottam (Gotham) where sure am I, 
Though not all fooles I saw many; 



Thence to Nottingam (Nottingham) where rovers, 
Highway riders, Sherwood drovers, 
Like old Robin Hood and Scarlet 
Or like little John his varlet. 



You may hardly believe it, but the following startling 
lines are extracted from the song by Brathwait in 
Barnabee Itineraries. The places noted would naturally 
lead you to think that they were penned by a modern 
New England writer instead of being, as they are, from 



16 REMINISCENCES OF 

the quill of one who flourished in England some two 
hundred years ago: — 

"Barnabee, Barnabee, thou'st been drinking, 
I can tell by nose and thy eyes winking. 
Drunk at Portsmouth, drunk at Dover, 
Drunk at Newcastle, and drunk all over, 
Hey Barnabee! tak't for a warning, 
Be no more drunk nor dry in a mourning." 

After nearly three hundred years of a passing exis- 
tence, the ruminiscences of the worshipper of Bacchus 
must give way to the reminiscences of the true and 
living Barnabee. If truth be indeed stranger than 
fiction how much longer the record of the real shall 
endure over the chronicle of the false depends entirely 
upon the days that are yet to come. 

And now, as I start from the cradle for a long journey 
on life's road, I see before me as a mirage the trail of 
the various stages through which I must pass, and the 
outlines of the stages on which I must act. With 
Shakespeare, I am ready to admit that: 

"All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players. 
They have their exits and their entrances; 
And one man in his time plays many parts, 
His acts being seven ages." 

After I have rehearsed my many parts in the follow- 
ing pages, and made my many exits and entrances, 
I sincerely hope that you will be seized with an impulse 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 17 

to go with me to another reunion of the Sons and 
Daughters of Portsmouth. 

Perhaps while I am writing this volume of sunshine 
and pleasures, some future Webster is sitting in the 
lap of my Alma Mater, or maybe the child playing with 
the rattle is to be an Aldrich or a Fields. Who knows? 
And when the sun goes down tonight, maybe the stars 
will twinkle o'er a cradle in which lies slumbering some 
future Celia Thaxter — or maybe the child is born to 
become a peerless tragedian or a noted comedian. At 
any rate, Portsmouth proudly exults today in her 
infants, and as she rocks them to sleep, mindless of 
what the future may have in store for them, she ex- 
claims, as did the mother of the Gracchii — 

"Lo! These Are My Jewels!" 



Chapter II 



THE EARLY DAWN 

THE LOST CHORD. — A BURNING EPISODE. — NAMESAKE OF 
HENRY CLAY. DANIEL WEBSTER, CITIZEN OF PORTS- 
MOUTH. PERENNIAL YOUTH. 

" Here s to life, our entrance to it naked and bare, 

Our progress thru it trouble and care; 

Our exit from it, God knows where, — 

But if you 11 do well here — you'll do well there." 

—An Old Toast. 

SPEAKING of my own arrival, I have been told 
it was welcomed and discussed in all its bear- 
ings by the otherwise unemployed neighborhood, 
duly chronicled in the family Bible and the town news- 
papers, and took its place in the more or less great 
happenings. 

However, an oversight on the part of my elders in 
connection with the happy event, has, in later years, 
been noted as a lost chord. Their failure to note the 
exact hour and minute of my being ushered into the 
choir visible was a musical error which I have always 
lamented, since, as you will learn, when I consulted 
a famed astrologer for my horoscope, the absence of 
exact information on the subject prevented his giving 
me correct advice in the matter of drawing to straights, 
and four-flushes — the right horse to back — the exact 

18 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



19 



time to invest in productive real estate — the Bell 
Telephone — and to rival in earthly possession that 
man of whom I once sang — 

I have heard of a man who posed as a Saint, 

Once upon a time. 
Who got rich, it was said, 
By means without taint, 
Once upon a time. 

Sometimes, it is said, 

He gave thousands away, 
But evened things up 

With higher prices next day. 
Now, wouldn't that rock-a-feller 

I can hear them all say, 
Once upon a time. 

Thus it will be observed that, by the omission of 
the apparently trifling date, attending my first en- 
trance, I have been prevented from contributing, in 
my well-known character of Easy-Money Barnabee, 
to the amelioration of the condition of God's poor and 
ignorant everywhere — of beautifying all the waste 
places — of irrigating the vast and boundless West, and 
making it bloom and blossom like the rose — of protect- 
ing the levees of the "Father of Waters" — of helping 
the Wizard of California in his schemes of perfecting 
fruits and flowers, and of feeding the world; of ex- 
pediting Peary with all the appliances which wealth 
could furnish in his hunt for the North Pole; of assist- 
ing the re-establishment of American commerce by a 
system of ship subsidies which would place the United 



20 REMINISCENCES OF 

States on an equality with other nations — of erecting 
art theatres in every intellectual centre where the 
masterpieces could be properly interpreted and where 
actors, as in other countries, could set the pace for the 
correct pronunciation of our beautiful language — of 
placing, by the use of persistent argument and spread- 
ing broadcast the proper information, the voting 
privilege upon an educational and common-sense 
basis; thus settling the negro and all other problems, 
and giving honest government to nation, city, town 
and village (think of honest government for New York 
City!) and in short — all of these instrumentalities 
having been day dreams with me ever since I was old 
enough to think of doing things and in any and every 
effort to "lend a hand," as our reverend and revered 
Edward Everett Hale said, for the Universal Good. 
Selah! 

It was not observed, on the day that I was born, 
that there was any universal disturbance terrestrial or 
otherwise. It might have been a cold day, but I did 
not get left. My principal interest in the matter 
centers in the fact, already mentioned, that it followed 
so closely the birth of that illustrious actor, Edwin 
Booth, an incident which has always been of great 
interest to my humble self. On my first visit to a real 
theater, I saw Mr. Booth's father, Junius Brutus 
Booth, play "Brutus" in John Howard Payne's tragedy 
of that name; and during the engagement Edwin 
must have made his first appearance on any stage. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



21 



If it was ever said of me, "He is such a good baby," 
the information was withheld and has never reached 
me. On the contrary, I was afterwards told that, 
quite early, when I had just begun to toddle, I devel- 
oped the purest kind of infantile cussedness, in mani- 
festing a faculty for having my own way, which was 
very trying to the devoted caretakers, to say the least. 

In one instance I paid dearly for it by evincing a 
burning desire for get-away-itiveness. It happened in 
this way: 

The family, with the exception of the sister who was 
detailed as nurse and was on guard for the day, were 
just seated for supper. A beefsteak had just been re- 
moved from the gridiron, which was smoking over the 
live coals in the old-fashioned fireplace. I was being 
disrobed, previous to being put in my little bed, a 
process which I resisted with all my baby strength, and 
was already in my birthday suit for encasement in 
my "nightie," when I detached myself from my 
sister's hold, and before she could jump and reach me, 
had seated myself on the burning, broiling implement 
and was grilled to a turn. 

A sojourn of three months on a pillow, carefully 
poulticed, watched and tended, crushed my propensity 
for a "pull" and taught me, as only a "fiery experi- 
ence" could, the old adage, "a burnt child dreads the 
fire." 

The family history does not record any remark I 
made on the burning episode, but I must have antici- 



22 REMINISCENCES OF 

pated the future and thought, "Here goes another 
martyr to the steak." 

Speaking of "steak" reminds me. Some sixty years 
after the above "warm reception," I had occasion to 
offer myself, along with a few other "Lambs," as a 
burnt sacrifice on Comedy's altar. However, as the 
match was never applied to the fagots and the burning 
never got any farther than the inward feeling of seeing 
ourselves the flaming subjects of a lost cause, I am 
spared to relate why our names are not inscribed on 
tablets in the "Hall of Martyrs" today. 

It seems we were appearing in a playlet, and, after 
the curtain had ascended, it was my official duty to 
walk to the footlights and offer a few complimentary 
remarks to the house. The bouquet having been offered 
and the applause having ceased, I then proceeded to 
launch our program, pushing it along with this take-it- 
as-you-please remark: 

"For our little entertainment we ask your kind and 
friendly indulgence. Should we fail to please, it is 
your privilege, as they do with bad actors in China, 
to chop off our heads or burn us at the stake. You can 
take your choice — chop or stake (steak)." 

After the final curtain, I reappeared and attempted to 
wait on the audience, asking the sentence which was 
supposed to seal our fate — "Is it chop or stake (steak)?" 
The storm of applause which followed wet the fagots 
and gave the would-be martyrs ample time in which 
to find the shortest "cut" to the outer world. Since 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 23 

then, I've never asked myself or others to serve as 
"chops" or "steaks." 

Pardon the confession here, but, while speaking of 
applause, I must say I like it. There is nothing sweeter 
than the rippling of the impact of dainty gloved hands 
and the more sonorous reverberations of the hardened 
palms of men. It proves to the actor that he has made 
a place for himself in the affectionate regard of the 
great mass of human beings known as the Public. It 
says, as if in so many words, "Go ahead, old boy, 
we're with you." 

My father, being a good Whig, named me for Henry 
Clay, and my younger brother for Daniel Webster. 
I remember his relating with glee how those two giants 
of the United States Senate, coming one day from the 
Capitol at Washington, chanced to see a "flock" of 
mules driven along Pennsylvania Avenue, whereupon 
Clay remarked banteringly: 

"Webster, there go some of your constituents." 

"Yes, sir," replied the ready Daniel, "they are going 
down to Kentucky to teach school." 

Although as soon as I grew old enough to take pride 
in such things I wrote my name, "H. Clay Barnabee," 
and subsequently "Henry Clay Barnabee" in full, I 
never saw the great American whose name was bor- 
rowed for my christening. 

But one of the most impressive among my early 
recollections is that of having gazed upon the living 
and Jove-like presence of Daniel Webster. I can see 



24 REMINISCENCES OF 

him now as he looked that day in Portsmouth, more 
than threescore years ago — his massive frame and 
magnificent head surmounted by a broad-brimmed 
"stovepipe" hat — his dark, deep-set, cavernous eyes 
smoldering beneath their overhanging brows, which 
reminded me of the coping of a cathedral — his firm-set 
lips and determined chin. 

He wore a high black stock and collar, a blue coat 
with brass buttons, a buff waistcoat, and loosely 
hanging trousers. A veritable king among men was 
our eloquent expounder of the Constitution. 

To this day, I have never ceased wondering why, in 
the recurrent revival of old customs and costumes, some 
modern Beau Brummel has not thought it worth while 
to resurrect the blue coat, brass buttons and buff waist- 
coat of the early Nineteenth Century. 

And now, in drawing the account of my baby days 
to a close, let me introduce my parents to you and tell 
you how I got acquainted with them. 

I can remember my dear mother, a little woman 
engrossed in household duties and the care of seven 
children; my father, a stalwart man with occupations 
which took him away from home a great deal of the 
time, stern but tender, as if to make me feel that the 
"velvet" hand held a sword of steel; my elder brother, 
going away to sea before I knew him and never re- 
turning, my three sisters, older than myself, dividing 
the care of my j^ounger brother and the wayward 
youth who is writing this. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 25 

My father was a noted whip in those palmy days of 
the stage coach, his route for many years being be- 
tween Portland and Boston via Portsmouth. He had 
the honor of driving Lafayette into our town, on the 
occasion of that illustrious Frenchman's last tour of 
America, in 1824, and the highway over which he 
passed is called the Lafayette Road to this day. 

In this auto age, the Portsmouth boy of fifty years 
delights to recall the high-stepping steeds which ushered 
forth from the stage stable on Washington Street, 
driven by some of the hostlers full of the importance of 
the temporary post of honor on the box, called at the 
postoffice for the changed mails and swept up over the 
Parade, rounding into Congress Street, and bringing 
up before the "General Stage Office," with heads 
towards Boston. The passengers from the east took 
a fresh start, as the Eastern Stage Company line ex- 
tended no farther east, and the Portland Stage Com- 
pany operated no farther west than the stage office in 
this city. On some pleasant day at noon as passers-by 
on Congress Street wended their way home to dinner, 
the passengers who an hour before had landed from the 
Portland mail on its arrival at twelve o'clock would 
be embarking under the guidance of Robert W. Annable, 
or that counterpart of the Senior Weller, Samuel 
Robinson, while on Sunday the sedate Elijah B. Young 
would hold the ribbons. 

The drivers mounted the box carrying with them 
up Congress Street a sense of the magnitude of their 



26 REMINISCENCES OF 

position. The lucky holders of the outside seat had 
already tendered the customary conciliatory cigar 
without which no one would be so impolitic as to 
attempt the enjoyment of a fifty-six mile drive; for 
if the drivers did not smoke themselves their friends 
did, and the boy of the period looked on and wondered 
when the time would arrive when he could have a stage 
ride to Boston with a seat on the box. There may have 
visited the imagination of some unheard-of boy of that 
day and generation visions of a higher happiness than 
this, but history fails to record the fact that he ever 
disclosed it. 

My father was a trusted agent of the line, scrupu- 
lously careful, devoting his attention not only to his 
passengers, but attending to the banking and express 
business between the smaller towns and Boston. In 
the course of years of industry and thrift, dating back 
to the war-time of 1812, he amassed what was then 
regarded as a comfortable little fortune, and was 
looking forward to a period of ease, comfort and hos- 
pitality in the decline of life. 

But, alas! for human plans and foresight. He had 
a friend whom he loved and trusted. In an evil hour 
he became that friend's security in a business deal, 
furnished him with a very large sum of money — and 
then awoke one morning to the heart-sickening fact 
that his confidence had been basely betrayed. The 
man he had trusted had decamped to parts unknown. 
Hearing afterwards that he had been seen somewhere 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



27 



in South America, my father took passage in a small 
sailing vessel, and went on the trail. He was one hun- 
dred and twenty days on the voyage, suffering atro- 
ciously from seasickness all the way. But the chase 
proved futile, after all, and my father came back home 
to make a fresh start in life. 

How many times in later life have I thought of my 
poor father and the promised returns for an invest- 
ment, and recalled the old lines, — 

"I had a dollar and a friend 

On whom I set great store, 
I loaned that dollar to that friend 

And saw that friend no more. 
Had I my dollar and my friend 

On whom I set great store, 
I'd keep my dollar and my friend, 

And play the fool no more." 

But I always did! 

Of my variegated list of investments, I can recall 
only one from which I ever got back a dollar of my 
principal, though I paid heavy assessments with a 
monotonous frequency rarely broken by the apparition 
of a diminutive profit or dividend. In fact, it may be 
written that my entire career was an accident policy — 
not like the one I took out in early life, in that benevo- 
lent institution — the itinerants' assurance company — 
paying premium for forty-eight years, during which 
time several boards of directors made fortunes and 
retired — and when I temporarily disappeared from the 



28 REMINISCENCES OF 

stage, by reason of a really serious accident, at the age 
of seventy-one, found that, by a change in the organi- 
zation of these progressive gentlemen, my policy 
had lapsed and forty -eight 'premiums had been swallowed 
in the vortex of dishonesty, avarice and greed, where 
so many reputations are forever engulfed. 

In games of chance I was ever the loser. The "boys" 
who have met me in many a tournament on the field of 
the cloth of green, can recall "me, at five o'clock in the 
morning, looking wearily for the touch of a vanished 
hand" and the "chips" that never "passed my way" 
in the night. And in the arena where swift runners 
contend for the mastery, I always read of my horse, 
"The Favorite Beaten," — "Lost by a Head" — "Left 
at the Post," or "Also Ran." Once at Sheepshead 
Bay, I attended six days in succession, put a fiver on 
every race, wagered in every way known to the know- 
ing ones, and never picked a winner once. 

Like son so was father. Willis Barnabee was a good 
loser. After his riches took wings, he set out to be an 
inn-keeper. For twenty-four years he ran the old 
Franklin House, Portsmouth's leading hostelry, with 
its big mast and swinging signboard in front, dating 
back to the Revolution. Mother was cook, and I 
waited on table and helped tend bar. 

Remember those were the good old days of the 
provincial tavern and the tri-weekly Boston mail 
coach. Dinner cost a quarter of a dollar, with a choice 
three-cent cigar, dry as tinder, thrown in. The bar, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



29 



though small, was supplied with most of the plain 
poisons in vogue today, except that nut-brown ale 
occupied the place of our new-fangled lager beer of 
today. 

Although I alternated bar-tending in my leisure 
hours with attending school on week days and singing 
in the church choir on Sundays, I never then or sub- 
sequently acquired the habit either of drinking or of 
smoking. 

And here let me say earnestly, as regards my indi- 
vidual self, that to my lifelong abstinence from to- 
bacco, compulsory though it may have been, I attrib- 
ute the preservation of my voice, which at seventy-seven 
is as strong and sonorous today throughout its full 
register as it ever was. 



Chapter III 



HISTORIC INNS AND OLD HOMES 

STORIES TOLD IN THE FRANKLIN TAPROOM. — OTHER 

TAVERNS. FIRST ORGANIZED RESISTANCE TO KING 

GEORGE. — NEW HAMPSHIRE SOLDIERS VS. MASSACHU- 
SETTS HISTORIANS. 

"An old home is like an old violin, the music of the past is wrought into it." — 
Catherine Sedgwick. 

THE Franklin House, my home for many years, 
was originally a dwelling house built about 
the opening of the Nineteenth Century. After 
being converted into a tavern it became known as the 
Portsmouth Hotel and general stage-office. 

A Portsmouth historian has entered the following 
note in his story of the famous inns of my native town : 
"The late Willis Barnabee, who had, as one of the most 
famous of the Eastern Stage Company's drivers, an 
acquaintance with everyone travelling between Bangor 
and New York, took the house in 1838 and changed 
the name to the Franklin House. Mr. Barnabee, like 
many other drivers, seeing the occupation of his early 
years likely to cease, leased the hotel, which was just 
across the street from his residence. After Mr. Barna- 
bee took the Franklin it was the daily scene of bustle 
and local interest. 

so 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 31 

In Mr. Barnabee's day the bill of fare was, as were 
the viands, in plain English. Travellers had no time 
or inclination to translate French phrases on the menu, 
but attacked the dinners with a relish hardly known in 
these effeminate days. Mr. Barnabee's career in the 
Franklin continued to his death in 1862.* 

In 1823, the historic inn was the scene of the great 
ball on the two hundredth anniversary of the first 
settlement of New Hampshire. Nearly four hundred 
were present. Grandsires and grandmothers, we are 
told, danced in the same sets with their children and 
grandchildren — and in the numerous ancient portraits, 
by the best masters, which covered the walls on every 
side, the representatives of the past centuries seemed to 
be mingling with their descendants on the joyous 
occasion. 

The majority of the "400" present on that occasion 
inscribed their names and ages on a parchment roll, 
and we notice among the many signatures those of 
Grace and Daniel Webster, Mary and Jeremiah Mason, 
the Wendells, the Sheafes, the Wentworths and other 
"who's who" in the town at that time. 

On September 21, 1824, the Marquis Lafayette held 



* Mr. Barnabee's mother, widow of the late Willis Barnabee, died on 
August 25, 1885, aged 86 years, 1 month and 10 days. 

"Her long connection with the old Franklin House gave her a wide- 
spread reputation, as her genial and lovely character brought her a large 
circle of appreciative friends and personal acquaintances. Soon after the 
death of her esteemed husband in January, 1862, she left the charge of the 
Franklin House and resided with her children in Portsmouth and Boston." 
— Portsmouth Journal. 

—Editor. 



32 REMINISCENCES OF 

a reception in "ye leading hotel," at which thirty 
veteran soldiers of the Revolution who had served 
under him were present. 

As I remember the Franklin, the place in which I 
began my very humble boyhood, it had a fine dance 
hall and many a night, from "sundown" to "sun up" 
did I exhibit my superior accomplishments in the 
terpsichorean art. It used to be the meeting-place for 
heroes. Statesmen, soldiers, sailors, divines and trades- 
men who had contended valiantly for country, state 
or city used to congregate there to discuss the "topics 
of the day." 

And there were serious problems to be solved in those 
days; vital questions to be discussed and settled; but 
on more than one occasion when argument was pro- 
voking contention, the keg of humor was tapped. 
Merriment and laughter held full sway, and patriotic 
toasts and non-intoxicating beverages made the 
rounds. 

I remember several stories which were told in that 
"hall of fame," and I am going to relate them just as 
they were told to me. The first is one in which Com- 
modore Perry, "the hero of Lake Erie," distinguishes 
himself as the blanketer of some blank talk. 

Veterans of the War of 1812 were still fighting their 
battles over again in the tavern taproom. An admiring 
chronicler, possibly some future historian, now of the 
already forgotten past, asked the gallant commander, 
in the presence of his signal officer, if he could recall 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE S3 

any notable saying or order that had fallen from his 
lips at that memorable crisis. 

"I don't know," mused the Commodore, turning to 

Lieutenant , "Can you remember anything in 

particular that I said?" 

"No, sir, — not unless, when you ordered a certain 
vessel into action — but — " 

"Well, what did I say then?" 

"You said — begging your pardon, sir — you said, 
'Blank it, why doesn't the blankety-blank blank go 
in? Tell him to go in, d — nhim! Ishead d coward?" 

"Hold on, sir," interrupted the hero, smiling faintly, 
"we'll get my order-book. That will show." 

They got the order-book, and the official record of 
what Commodore Perry said on that great and glorious 
occasion was reported to be only this, and nothing 
more: 

"Please move forward." 

But Daniel Webster was a greater and more impres- 
sive human presence in the old Franklin House Tap- 
room than any of his contemporaries, or successors. 
The best stories were always about him, and almost 
invariably hinged upon his notorious indiscretions in 
the matter of over-conviviality. Some of these anec- 
dotes, for sufficiently obvious reasons, never got be- 
yond the currency of oral tradition. Others have been 
judiciously edited, and passed into print. One which 
I had from original hearers may possibly have escaped 
general publicity. 



34 REMINISCENCES OF 

The noble Daniel, as everybody knows, was generous 
before he was just. He was readier to help others out 
of debt than to discharge his own obligations. He 
would remember a friend in need, and borrow money 
of a third party to relieve that friend's necessity, and 
then forget to repay the party of the third part. Hence, 
chronic financial embarrassment. 

On one notable anniversary Daniel Webster was 
called upon to "say something" on five different topics, 
of more or less specific gravity. The last and weight- 
iest was "The National Debt." It was late, and the 
banquet had already passed the "walnuts and the wine" 
stage, when the mighty Daniel arose wearily for his 
culminating outburst of oratory. Thrusting one hand 
into the expansive bosom of his coat, he stood there 
in his familiar Jove-like attitude, trying to think 
what his subject was supposed to be. 

"The National Debt," whispered the toastmaster, 
prompting him. 

With superhuman dignity, the New England Demos- 
thenes pulled himself together, and in deep organ- 
tones spake thus: 

"And now we come, my fellow-citizens, to that 
momentous consideration, the National Debt. The 
National Debt, gentlemen, the National Debt" — 
fumbling in his waistcoat pocket — "why, d — it, I'll 
pay it myself!" 

Unfortunately he didn't have the amount with him 
at that moment. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 35 

It was at the door of the old Cutts House that Paul 
Revere delivered several dispatches during the sunrise 
of American liberty. On December 13, 1774, the fear- 
less Paul made his first historic ride, which led to the 
attack on Fort William and Mary. 

"The seizure of arms and powder at Fort William 
and Mary," (now Fort Constitution) says a historian, 
"was the first capture made by the Americans in the 
war of the Revolution." 

We all know about the Boston Tea-Party, which 
occurred on December 16, 1773, when men disguised 
as Indians made a huge teapot of Boston Harbor by 
breaking open the chests and emptying the contents 
into the frigid waters of the Harbor. But few of us 
know much about the first organized resistance to 
King George's armed authority. 

On December 14, 1774, four hundred determined 
Portsmouth men, carefully organized, and through 
previous arrangement, went to his Majesty's strongly 
fortified castle, "William and Mary," at the mouth of 
the Piscataqua River — forcibly took possession of it, 
in spite of the brave defense of Captain Cochran and 
his men, locked up the garrison in the fortress and 
carried away upwards of 100 barrels of powder be- 
longing to the King. It was then and there that the 
British flag was pulled down for the first time, and 
with pride I add by the men of my own native city. 

The following day — Thursday, December 15th — 
the Portsmouth men again went to the front, and, as 



36 REMINISCENCES OF 

Governor Wentworth wrote to Governor Gage of 
Massachusetts, "brought off many cannon and about 
sixty muskets." 

The true state of affairs being exposed by his Maj- 
esty's agent, the official was not backward in closing 
his communication with the words — "the town is full 
of armed men who refuse to disperse." And further in 
another communication, Governor Wentworth wrote: 

"No jail would hold them (the offenders) long and no 
jury would find them guilty; for, by the false alarm that 
had been raised throughout the country, it is considered by 
the weak and ignorant, who have the rule in these times, an 
act of self-preservation." 

The powder taken from the fort was afterwards 
used at Bunker Hill, where, as you will remember, it 
was very much needed. Pardon my enthusiasm, but 
did you know that one-half of the total number of 
soldiers engaged at Bunker Hill were from New 
Hampshire? 

My friend, Mr. Carpenter, has said, "The Massa- 
chusetts men have written histories, and with exag- 
gerated ego and natural conceit, have minimized the 
participation of New Hampshire in the important 
events in Colonial and Revolutionary times." This 
may be a little harsh, but the way in which Massa- 
chusetts has forgotten the affairs of those early days 
sometimes reminds one of that story told concerning 
Ethan Allen, the hero of Ticonderoga. 

It is recorded that shortly after his victory, Ethan 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



37 



was attending church. The minister gave thanks to 
Providence for the result and dwelt at length upon the 
goodness of the Almighty in accomplishing it. He 
went on ascribing the entire glory of the affair to Provi- 
dence, and finally Ethan could stand it no longer, and 
jumping up said, "Won't you please mention the fact 
that Ethan Allen was there?" 

Mr. Carpenter has well said that it has always been 
found that the patriotic spirit is strongest in those 
places where the people are brought most intimately 
into relations with the land — with the soil — a part of 
the courage and patriotism of the ancient Greeks was 
due to this cause. New Hampshire's chief glory is 
its scenery — its mountains, lakes and rivers — and these 
are never forgotten no matter where a son of New 
Hampshire may go. They are always present in his 
mind, a part of his life, his memory, and he always 
hopes to some time see them again. 



Chapter IV 



SCHOOLDAYS 

"For backslidings, a plentiful store, 
For follies of various degrees, — 
Ye long suffering masters of yore, 
Forgiveness we ask on our kneesl 

— James T. Fields. 

REV. THOMAS STARR KING once said, "It 
makes no difference where we were babies, 
for then, wherever our residence may be, our 
only home is our mother's arms; the great question 
is, where were we boys?" 

Having outgrown my long dresses, I was not long 
in reaching the second of Shakespeare's seven ages, and 
certainly my dear mother, standing in the doorway of 
the old home, watched her baby, Henry Clay, as 

The whining schoolboy, with his satchel 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school. 

But before I snatch from oblivion a few reminiscences 
of my schooldays, I must relate the incident that 
caused this salvage to be so fragmentary. 

My father, a lover and owner of horses, early con- 
ceived the idea of teaching me to ride. Nature, it 
seems, had scarcely designed me for a dashing trooper, 
but father ignored this. During my first lessons he 

38 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 39 

had me strapped on a horse's back, and I made quite 
a hit prancing about the streets of the town, seemingly 
with the seat of a centaur. But mine was the pride 
that proverbially goeth before a fall. On an evil day, 
I sallied forth unstrapped, and, of course, encountered 
some boys with fish-poles, one of whom, by accident 
or design, struck my erstwhile safe and gentle steed. 
The next minute I found myself astride a tornado. 
Later, I was picked up, stunned and battered. Memory, 
so far as the preceding incidents of my childhood were 
concerned, abruptly vacated its seat, and "like the 
baseless fabric of a vision," left scarce "a rack behind." 

With the exception of doing penance, once only, at 
William Muldoon's health-restoring academy, in com- 
pany with the proprietor, keeping my weather eye on 
William all the while — and the few times I took my 
life in my hands in the un-comic opera of "Don 
Quixote," I have never been on the back of a horse, 
and I pledge my fortune and sacred honor I will 
never trust myself on the back of any horse again, 
unless he is lame, blind and hitched. 

This reminds me that my entire history from child- 
hood has been punctuated with a series of terrific 
tumbles. Providence must have specially detailed a 
guardian angel to watch over me. Shortly after my 
equestrian accident, I played truant to attend the 
launching of a ship, and fell through a hatchway from 
the deck to the bottom of the hold, some thirty or 
forty feet. A pile of shavings saved me that time. 



40 REMINISCENCES OF 

Years later, while playing "Don Quixote," the whole 
front scene went down with a crash. I was at the top 
of a tall ladder, but survived the dive. 

One day a truck laden with hogsheads of molasses 
backed up at a corner grocery adjoining my father's 
hotel. By some carelessness, of the drayman, one of 
them fell heavily upon the sidewalk and burst open. 
Before it could be righted, about half of the contents 
were meandering, a sluggish, swollen stream, down the 
walk. 

At wonderfully short notice, all the boys of the 
neighborhood came swarming like honey-bees, with 
all sorts of implements for scooping up molasses. I, 
being then all legs and arms, jumped up and leaned 
far over the edge of the big barrel itself — too far, in 
fact, as I lost my balance and fell in head first. 

By an irony of fate, I was rescued by the keeper of 
the shop, but was lost from society for the balance of 
that day. How many layers of soap it took to clean 
me, I know not; yet I often am inclined to think, in 
self-flattery and without regret — that some of the 
sweetness then so plentifully distributed over me has 
stuck to my disposition ever since. 

I have needed it, often. Let me repeat, that in all 
my public life I have never done anything deliberately. 
Every step, from my first recitation of "Parrhasius" — 
which I shall recount later — to my wm-step and dis- 
appearance from vaudeville, has been the result of 
accident. The force of circumstance has thrown me 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 41 

into whatever I have been mixed up in, always sans 
preparation or forethought. 

Again I digress, as usual, but life, with me, is made 
up chiefly of digressions. I was about recalling old 
schooldays in Portsmouth. Thomas Bailey Aldrich 
has done the same thing, inimitably, in his way, in his 
"Story of a Bad Boy" — the Tom Bailey of that book 
being, of course, himself. 

The snowball fights on Slatter's Hill, the "Pope 
Night" pranks, with horns and jack-o'-lanterns, on 
the fifth of November — a direct survival of the colonial 
English observance of the Guy Fawkes anniversary; 
the fierce vendetta between the boys of the South End 
of the town, and the North-enders — all these, and 
many more of Aldrich's chapters, are vivid realities 
to me. 

Especially do I remember "Pope Night" and the 
natural vindictivcness which, like appetite, "grows by 
what it feeds on." We never knew or cared what the 
celebration was about except that it was evidently 
intended as an excuse for raising — his Satanic Majesty 
— and making night hideous, which we did, stopping 
short only at the blowing up of houses in imitation of 
that historic personage, Guido or "Guy Fawkes." 

When night closed in on the hullabaloo, we assembled 
on the Parade, in the center of the town, for the pur- 
pose of meeting the enemy. At a given signal, the 
contending columns, disregarding all tactics, made a 
rush for the opposing forces, hurling our pumpkin 



42 REMINISCENCES OF 

lanterns at each other until they were all squashes. 
There were never any casualties that soap and water 
could not cure, but in the morning what should have 
been a gory field looked like a rich yellow sunset. 

The pathetic passages, too, are bits of real Ports- 
mouth history. You remember his allusions to the 
sad fate of poor Binny Wallace who drifted out to sea 
in a dory? It suggests the departure of an elder 
brother of mine, Willis Barnabee, Jr., who went to 
sea and never returned. I was a little fellow at the 
time, and had a big chum named Tom Clapham, who, 
like Steerforth in "David Copperfield," took me under 
his wing. He proved more than a friend — he became 
"my guide, philosopher and friend." He made my kites 
and flew them for me. He tinkered up my toys and 
became their master. On Pope night he would take 
the biggest and yellowest pumpkin — that golden ex- 
tract of summer and sunshine — procurable in the 
neighborhood and convert it into a lantern that out- 
did in hideous horror the most lurid caricatures of 
"yellow journalism." 

Then suddenly, when the gold fever of '49 broke 
out, Tom Clapham in his turn ran away to sea; and 
his fate, like that of my brother Willis, remained a 
lifelong mystery — almost. 

Here, thirty years are supposed to elapse, as we say 
on the stage. But in 1890 I was on my first visit to 
California, and in the lobby of the Baldwin Hotel, 
San Francisco, a gentleman approached me and says: 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 43 

"Mr. Barnabee, there's an old fellow tending door at 
a dance-saloon not far from here, who says he knows 
you. I forget his name, but he claims that you and 
he were boyhood pals. Every night he begs, borrows 
or steals a quarter, and goes up into the gallery of 
the theater to see you play. Do you know him?" 

"Not unless his name is Tom Clapham," I replied. 

"That's it!" the gentleman answered. 

So I went to look poor Tom up, and with great diffi- 
culty found him, sick, and living in a garret. I played 
the good Samaritan for the time, and during the re- 
mainder of my stay in 'Frisco, we had glorious times 
telling each other everything that had happened since. 
The next time I visited 'Frisco, some three years later, 
dear old Tom was dead. 

It may or may not have been with a "shining morn- 
ing face" that I approached the grammar schoolhouse 
where that stern disciplinarian, Mr. Timothy G. Senter, 
wielded the primitive ferule; but there can be no doubt 
whatever that I "crept like a snail, unwillingly." 

The other boys had more playtime than I did, on 
account of my duties at home — I still remember 
with a heavy heart how I had to shell peas on a Fourth 
of July. 

My first serious "run-in" with Schoolmaster Senter 
would be hard to forget. I was at the foot of my class, 
as usual, and he started at the head, asking each pupil 
in succession the formidable question, "How many 
Gods are there?" 



44 REMINISCENCES OF 

"Two," answered the first boy, thinking to be on 
the safe side. The teacher frowned him down. 

"Three," the next boy ventured, making matters 
still worse. 

By the time it got down to me, I concluded the 
other fellows had not been half liberal enough with 
their deities. So I shouted out "Ten!" 

Zip ! came the ferule at my head. I dodged it, and 
flew like the wind toward home and safety. Some 
distance up the road I met another small boy, who was 
coming to school. 

"Say, how many Gods are there?" I asked him. 

"One," was his reply. 

"Well, you'd better not go to old Timothy G. with 
your one God," I cautioned him, "for he was just 
going to thresh the life out of me, and I made it ten." 

In the basement of our school there was an old, dis- 
used safe, which had belonged to the bank formerly 
occupying the premises. We used it for a wood bin. 
One day, making the punishment to fit some juvenile 
offense or other which I had committed, the teacher 
shoved me into the iron coop, and then forgot me and 
went home to dinner. 

I could have walked out at will, as there was no com- 
bination lock on the jail door. But, with my outraged 
feelings, I wanted to get back at the teacher; so I 
never budged for more than two hours, during which 
time my parents sent out an alarm, and even got the 
town crier on the job searching for me. When my 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



45 



cruel gaoler at last bethought himself of my where- 
abouts, I was found sitting doggedly in my cage, 
elbows on knees, a living picture of martyrdom. 

My propensity for fun couldn't be repressed. It 
came out in my lessons and recitations. Often I 
would give burlesque solutions to problems, and also, 
I regret to say, at Sunday school would paraphrase 
verses of the Bible. When called upon to "speak a 
piece," I usually delivered myself of some absurd 
travesty, perhaps elaborately prepared for the occa- 
sion, which always provoked laughter. 

One original effort of mine at the time of the Mexican 
War, when our New England volunteers went South 
wearing enormous bearskin caps and ridiculous little 
monkey-jackets, ran as follows: 

"Our volunteers to war have gone — 

On the Rio Grande you'll find them, 
With bearskin caps their heads upon, 
And no coat-tails behind them." 

My day of reckoning at school came with examina- 
tion. It was my custom on those dread occasions to 
"cram" prodigiously, and then trust to luck and my 
wits to carry me through. Here is what happened to 
me in the high-school grade geometry class, when the 
Rev. Andrew P. Peabody, pastor of the Unitarian 
Church and chairman of the School Committee, con- 
ducted a general demonstration of the principles of 
Euclid on the blackboard. 

Each student drew a problem to work out, accord- 



46 REMINISCENCES OF 

ing to his number in the class. Mine was No. 34, and 
I got the shortest and simplest example of the bunch. 
But Dr. Peabody, suspecting that the boys had learned 
their Euclid by rote, without any real understanding, 
quietly changed the letters of the problems written 
on the board, before we began to "demonstrate." 
This balled up the boys frightfully, and at the same 
time gave me fair warning; for while they were flounder- 
ing, I perceived the little trick which had been played, 
and, tranquilly opening the book, was enabled to 
absorb the true inwardness of my own problem, and 
to show why it should be "thisly and thusly," despite 
the juggled A. B. C's. This won me instantaneous 
Kudos as a geometrical shark, which I could never 
afterwards live up to. 

That same day in the physiology class, the embarrass- 
ing question was put: "What is the name of the fluid 
which separates our bones?" The correct answer was: 
synovia, or joint-water — but I didn't know that, so I 
bawled out confidently, "Elbow-grease!" And that 
was accepted by my teacher and classmates as an 
original substitute for science. 

But these academic experiences were only a part, 
and a minor part at that, of my real schooling. In my 
chores and daily life about the hotel, where the village 
worthies assembled and all sorts of travelers came, I 
was learning something every minute. 

I was absorbing experience, unconsciously studying 
character, taking in wit, wisdom, wise "old saws, and 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 47 

modern instances" enough to last a lifetime much 
longer than mine. 

My dear mother, an energetic little woman wrapped 
up in household duties and the care of seven children, 
was still able to exercise a general beneficent control 
over this home part of my education. But she couldn't 
quite inoculate me against "swear- words." They were 
in the very air we breathed. Mild cussedness was then 
the fashion in our set, and "Hades" and "demnition" 
peppered every phrase. 

"Oh, Henry! Wherever did you learn that wicked 
word?" I can still hear her saying. And my own flip- 
pant reply, which I now recall in humble penitence 
and remorse: 

"Darned if I know, mother — unless it was in that 
story pop told, coming back from church." 

Among our regular boarders were an upright judge 
and a learned pedant, both of whom were possessed 
of vocabularies of the most flamboyant fluency. They 
were forever talking, and whether the subject was 
crops, the weather, morals, politics or religion, their 
conversation was so interlarded with oaths that it 
was impossible to repeat any of their remarks or 
stories without at least a suggestion of profanity. 

The learned pedant is responsible for the finale of 
the following historic incident of which I myself was 
a gleeful eye-witness: On the rise of the hill road 
leading to the cemetery was pastured a large, able- 
bodied, long-horned and cantankerous billygoat. It 



48 REMINISCENCES OF 

was the joy of us boys, after school, to go and tussle 
with Billy, two or three of us at a time holding him by 
the horns and frustrating his best efforts as a battering- 
ram. This proceeding naturally infuriated him, so 
that after we got through, anybody or anything passing 
that way had to fly precipitately, or else bear the brunt 
of the billygoat's wrath. 

One Saturday afternoon, just after one of our goat- 
wrestling matches, a funeral procession hove in sight, 
winding slowly and solemnly up the hill. In those 
days, carriages were rarely used on such occasions, and 
everybody was afoot. Just as they reached the top 
of the hill, out of breath with their climb, Capri- 
cornus broke loose, came down on that cortege like 
"the wolf on the fold," went for the head mourner and 
knocked the whole d — n funeral down hill. 

One incident of my childhood has survived the lapse 
of time; and as it seemed to foreshadow the sense of 
humor with which a generous public and the par- 
tiality of friends has later credited me, I will relate it 
here. 

During one of my father's tri-weekly visits to 
Boston, he learned the secret of a drink then much in 
vogue, composed principally of beaten eggs with 
decidedly alcoholic ingredients. Whether it was the 
combination known to the present generation as egg- 
nogg which, in the multiplicity of seductive concoc- 
tions, has long ago passed into the list of back-number 
drinks, I cannot tell. But my father gave it that 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 49 

name, and it was new to the innocent inhabitants of 
Portsmouth. 

One evening when my parents were to give a party, 
"egg nogg" was to be the piece de resistance of the 
refreshments. To insure promptness at the time of 
mixing the compound, the eggs previously prepared 
were placed in a wooden dish, in a cool and sequestered 
place. As a special favor, I was allowed to sit up — 
but as refreshments, after the usual hours, were more 
alluring to the youthful mind than the mature attrac- 
tions of the parlor, I lingered near the kitchen to watch 
the preparations for the delectation of the appetites 
sharpened by the prolonged evening entertainment. 

While the guests were assembling in the supper 
room, my father came to the kitchen to mix the mys- 
terious and delicious compound. He took the dish 
containing the principal ingredient and turned to 
place it on a table, when a serving man, passing hur- 
riedly, struck his arm, and in a second a yellow lake 
with numerous tributaries and rivulets inundated the 
kitchen floor. 

That was my "message to Garcia." Seizing a feather 
duster which hung near, I rushed to the banquet 
room, "blazing with light and breathing with per- 
fume," mounted a chair, waved the microbe disturber 
aloft to attract attention, and yelled in my childish 
voice: 

"Ladies and 'Entlemen, you can't have any egg 
nogg, cos father's spilt all the lemon eggs." 



50 REMINISCENCES OF 

It is needless to add, I was yanked from my perch, 
conducted upstairs in a hurry and put into my couch, 
with a slippery prelude. That was my first and last 
home-appearance at evening functions. 

One of the Draconian laws governing my father's 
household was that I should be in bed and asleep by 
10 o'clock p. M. One moonlit summer's night I was 
in swimming with my mates at the Navy Yard Slip, 
and by reason of various "stumps" and "stunts," did 
not get out and dressed until the town clock struck the 
witching hour of eleven. Did I hurry home? Oh, no, 
perhaps not! When I reached there the side door was 
locked, and the fearsome alternative presented itself 
of either waking my father or clambering in by stealth. 
I chose the latter. My parents' bedroom was at one 
end of the hall, mine at the other. The door of my 
room swung back and made a little alcove where there 
was a window. My! If I only could! I raised the 
sash gently and fastened it up. Then I removed my 
shoes, my cap and jacket and lowered them softly to 
the floor. One long leg, then the other, over the sill — 
I picked up my clothes, chuckled to think how easy 
it all was, pushed the door gently back and — there 
stood my father, in his night-dress, where he had been 
watching the whole burglarious proceeding. He 
looked ten feet high, stern and silent as a monument. 
Not a word was spoken, but he gave me such a look 
and vanished. My own exit from the scene was ac- 
complished with equal celerity. But that look of 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 51 

father's was a silent warning that lasted me through 
the swimming season. 

How often, in after years, has that scene recurred 
to me, sometimes in situations bordering on the tragic; 
and I have realized that silence can be many times 
stronger than words. 

If I were to lengthen this chapter, I am afraid I 
would have to appear in the character of the bad boy 
and recite some of the laughable experiences of school 
life, which, though they might be fun for you, would 
be anything but pleasant memories to my old and 
respected teachers. 

I beg my instructors, however, to believe that the 
spirit of fun which so exercised them was but the 
germ of that talent, which in later years, if it has not 
done anything for the world's advancement, has, at 
least, effected something to disseminate the gospel of 
cheerfulness. Let me assure them, too, that I recall 
how often during the morning of my life they had 
told me that I should one day thank them for their 
teachings, for their sternness of discipline, and even 
for the occasional whippings which I now see were less 
frequent than I deserved. As a sentiment, I offer the 
one given at the reunion of the graduates and members 
of my old High School in 1873: 

"Our Teachers: Sometimes blessings in disguise. Our 
chastenings only furnished momentary clouds, that had 
their golden lining. In the light of after sunshine, we honor 
them for their fidelity, respect them for their stern virtues; 



52 REMINISCENCES OF 

and trust their teachings. Their eloquent appeals, which 
detained us many half-hours beyond school hours, and their 
infrequent use of the rod have had the effect to make us 
better men and women, stronger in self-control, with loftier 
aims and aspirations. May they be forever blessed! 



Chapter V 



FIRST STEPS 



MY FIRST APPEARANCE ON THE STAGE. — FIRST ATTEMPT 
TO SING. — FIRST DANCING LESSONS. — PATTl's FIRST 
AMERICAN TOUR. — FIRST MALE GLEE CLUB. — FIRST 
DAYS BEHIND THE COUNTERS. 

"Fust appearances are ced to be everything. I don't put all my faith into 
this sayin; I think oysters and clams, for instance, will bear looking into." — 
Josh Billings. 

PRECEDING by many long years my first step 
into the life of the theater, my first appearance 
on any stage was in my native town, and though 
it showed no signs of histrionic ability or especial genius 
it certainly developed my taste and my fun-loving 
propensity. 

It was at a fair held under the auspices of one of the 
church societies. And what a fair it was. It was given 
in the place of all places — Portsmouth's only con- 
venient assembly-room — Jefferson Hall. I remember 
the old hall where the townsmen met in the annual 
town meeting when we elected the Selectmen, or the 
State election of the Governors, the M. C.'s and the 
Presidents; and on many such occasions have I wit- 
nessed, when political feeling ran at high water mark, 
a gathering of excited partisans that was anything but 
a love feast. 

53 



54 REMINISCENCES OF 

In the tableaux vivants I filled the position of 
author and stage manager. I induced three of the young 
ladies of the Society — and who were also the hand- 
somest — to assist me. By consent of a fond mother, I 
was able to present a little white cherub, in tights and 
gossamer wings, as Cupid. The scene was rural. I 
made a mound with the relics of barrels and dry goods 
boxes, covered it with green mats, and had the three 
young ladies recline on the improvised structure, in 
the act of rapturously beholding and enticing the cherub 
to favor their loves. When the curtain rose on "Cupid 
caught by the Graces" the applause was uproarious, 
the curtain calls prolonged, and my reputation as a 
gentleman of taste, refinement, elegance and skill 
firmly established. The participants in that picture 
have since passed away, I trust to the glories of heaven, 
but the remembrance of that graceful child and the 
beautiful young faces and figures is still mine, and will 
remain with me while memory holds its seat. 

The next tableau was devised by a rival of mine 
in musical circles. He suggested a Biblical picture. 
"Belshazzar's Feast" was thought the most proper 
and effective, especially as he, as Belshazzar, would 
occupy the center of the stage. And by the way, in 
after years, I never could understand the feverish desire 
of actors and singers to occupy that central position 
whenever there was the slightest chance of obtaining 
it. They felt that they must have it to convince the 
audience that they were "It," forgetting that the 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 55 

center of interest is always the locality occupied by 
the real artist. This propensity on the part of partici- 
pants in a performance had its illustration in the 
"Passion Play" at Oberammergau, when I was an 
observer in the year 1900. I may relate it later. 

Well! to resume! In this particular tableau at the 
fair I was relegated to a position in the left hand corner 
of the stage, my supposedly ruffled feelings soothed by 
a gorgeous covering of "togs" becoming the chief 
courier, and which would make me, in the "taffy" 
offered me by the "pretender to the throne" the "cyno- 
sure" of all eyes. I did not tumble to the compliment, 
however. 

The "Belshazzar" of our show in his daily occupation 
had a knack of making transparencies, and in the win- 
dows of the shop which he kept, open-work letters, 
illumined with candles and lamps, were constantly ap- 
pearing. On this occasion to properly present the 
"handwriting on the wall," he procured a large raisin 
box from the corner grocery, and knocking out one 
side of it and substituting in open-work letters the 
dreaded words — 

. . . Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin 

in good straight English, it was thought, by the corps 
dramatique, to be very impressive. 

When the curtain began to ascend and the under- 
pinnings and costumes of the "artists" presented them- 
selves the applause was tumultuous, but when the 



56 REMINISCENCES OF 

anticipated transparency appeared there was a shriek 
of laughter which rattled the windows. The curtain 
was rung down, consternation was on every face, what 
was the matter? A hurried investigation disclosed the 
fact that in the hurry of getting the picture posed and 
the curtain started, some unhallowed hand had turned 
the transparency box around, when instead of: 

Mene, Mene, Tekel, Uphaesin 

there appeared these cabalistic words: 

Fresh Raisins — Twenty Cents a Pound. 

The culprit was never discovered, but if there are 
any living besides myself who were in that cast they 
have never forgotten the night when they dined with 
Belshazzar and had "Fresh Raisins" on the side. 

Without premonition to guide me, or education to 
direct, I have accomplished or failed in the under- 
takings of my life, as previously noted, mainly through 
accident or chance. The words "fate" and "destiny" 
are sometimes applied to that mysterious power which 
"shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will." Were I 
writing about someone else, and not of myself, I might 
say that in this connection the term "genius" has also 
been employed. 

But genius never taught any human being how to 
dance. Even the genius has to learn the two or waltz- 
step from a dancing-master, if he learns it at all. My 
distinguished friend, Col. Henry Watterson, once paid 
me the compliment — which I cling to the more fondly 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 57 

because it was unmerited — of declaring that I was 
"the most graceful man on the American stage." 
This is how I account for having given him such an 
impression : 

In the middle '40's, a French dancing-master came 
to Portsmouth, and started a class which used to meet 
in the parlor of our hotel. This dancing-class was a 
very swell affair, exclusively for the Brahmin caste, or 
smart set, of our town. In fact, it was so extremely 
exclusive that it failed. 

The French master stayed at our house and taught 
us kids for his board. From him I learned the rudi- 
mentary one-two-three, four-five-six of the waltz, 
polka and mazurka, and the (then) latest in Parisian 
quadrilles. Where no book-study nor mental exertion 
was required, I proved an apt pupil.* 

* Touching on Mr. Barnabee's ability as a dancer, the late Jessie Bartlett 
Davis, favorite songstress of the "Bostonians," used to delight in telling 
the following story. It's a true story and worthy of repetition: 

"The Bostonian Company was staying at the Iroquois Hotel, Buffalo. 
The dining-room has a tiled floor, and one of Mr. Barnabee's weaknesses 
is dancing on tiles, particularly when they are a little loose. Mrs. Barnabee, 
my sister, and I were at breakfast and waiting for him. It was his first 
appearance in the restaurant, and about sixty people were having their 
coffee or lunch when he came in. Well, the moment he stepped on the floor, 
a tile or two gave, and the impulse that seized him seUhis feet flying and I 
never saw him dance better. His wife knew that if she tried to stop him 
he would persist just to tease her, and so she smiled and said nothing, but 
frowned whenever he looked our way. The head waiter thought he was 
crazy until he began to sing jig music and dance round him. The guests 
put down their knives and forks and laughed and applauded while their 
coffee and chops got cold. When he had gone over the floor and had all 
the fun he wanted with the loose tiles, he stopped, seated himself and ate 
his breakfast with all the affected severity and mannerisms of a senior 
vestryman." 

The Victoria Daily Colonist throws a bouquet at Mr. Barnabee's feet 
when it says: — "He dances with the vivacity of a front row ballet girl." — 
Editor. 



58 REMINISCENCES OF 

What I learned most easily I have longest retained, 
and it has proved of incalculable value to me through- 
out my professional career. When beginners ask my 
advice about studying for the stage, whether lyric or 
dramatic, I always urge them to go in for dancing and 
fencing, the first thing. 

The chapter about my early musical training is 
much shorter: I never had any. 

Israel P. Kimball, teacher in the High School at 
Portsmouth, was a leading tenor in the church choir, 
and also ran a singing-school. It was through his 
friendly influence that I droned along with the hymns 
in the old Unitarian church. Because I liked him, 
and because he discerned in me hidden qualities 
which neither I nor any one else suspected, I was in- 
duced to attend his singing classes, and to diligently 
con the sol fa. 

I learned it, after a fashion, by rote, or by ear. But 
I never really got it through my head so as to read 
musical notation in the ordinary, conventional, civilized 
way. Doubtless it will scandalize the gentle or savage 
reader who glances over these rambling pages because 
I have won his friendly interest as a singer in comic 
or serio opera. 

Nevertheless, the sad fact remains that if, today, he 
were suddenly to place before me the score of "Robin 
Hood," or "Pinafore," or "Fra Diavolo," I couldn't 
for the life of me tell whether a given note was A or G, 
or what key it was in. At the same time, I could sing 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 59 

it correctly, or any unfamiliar piece of music, though I 
should prefer to hear it played over once on the piano, 
so as to get started right on the tempo, and that sort 
of thing. 

The celebrated Mme. RudersdorfF, who was one 
of the finest dramatic and coloratura singers I ever 
knew, once said to me, when I confided to her this 
peculiarity : 

"Never mind; you are all right. That's the true 
method of singing at sight, anyway. The best of them 
don't really know anything about music, more than 
that — if they know as much." 

I always liked that woman. 

The combination of singing in the church choir and 
taking dancing lessons at home, while at the same time 
absorbing Yankee character-study in large doses 
through my everjday duties about the hotel, produced 
through my erratic and fun-loving temperament some 
strange and startling results. In the amateur enter- 
tainments organized by local talent at the town 
Cameneum, and at the Temple, I began to figure 
among those present on the miniature stage or platform. 
Singing in the chorus was my specialty as I developed 
early a sort of rumbling subway vocal organ effect, 
which subsequently I learned was a basso profundo, 
with a baritone range. I could black up as a darkey, 
play general utility man or "shouts outside" in ama- 
teur theatricals, and, with a body long, lank and lean, 
like "Darius Green of the flying machine," had the 



60 REMINISCENCES OF 

reputation of being a highly decorative spearman or 
torch-bearer*. 

Itinerant minor professional talent, such as Wiseman 
Marshall, the entertainer, occasionally visited Ports- 
mouth, and I took in everything of that sort that came 
down the narrow way. 

My most vivid musical recollection of this period 
is the visit of Adelina Patti, then a child wonder, aged 
eleven years. She was accompanied on this, her first, 
concert tour, by Maurice Strakosch, the pianist, who 
afterward married her elder sister, Amelia Patti; and 
Ole Bull, the great violinist. Little Adelina stood up 
on a hassock and warbled her fioritura aria from "La 
Sonnambula" with the full-throated ease of a bird. 

Twenty-five years later, I heard her sing the same 
selection, in the same voice and manner — for she has 
been kept in cotton batting all her life, and, apparently, 



* Darius Green! Who has not heard of Darius, the birdman? Mr. J. T. 
Trowbridge, who has lived to see even his humorous vision realized, said 
quite recently: 

"When I wrote 'Darius Green,' I am afraid I took advantage of my poetic 
license when I made what little of prophecy I did make in the poem, for, 
frankly, I had no idea then that men would ever fly through the air — at 
least in my time." 

In recalling his own experience with his famous poem, the aged writer 
pins a blue ribbon on Mr. Barnabee. Mr. Barnabee, as his records show, 
was capable of soaring for years to such altitudes with "Darius" that even 
the inventor of the original was forced from the course. Mr. Trowbridge's 
explanation to the public for withdrawing is as follows: 

"I used to read it before gatherings of various kinds a good deal at one 
time. That was in the years following its publication. In fact, I rather 
liked to read it until one time I saw H. C. Barnabee recite it. Then I 
decided to stop reading 'Darius Green.' You see Barnabee could act and I 
couldn't, and it is a poem that requires some acting. Barnabee recited it 
as I would like to recite it. He gave it a spirit and a life that I couldn't. 
It was all in his acting — his facial expression and his gestures." — Editor. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 61 

has done little more than coddle the exquisite gifts 
with which Nature dowered her. I have a programme 
of this entertainment in which she also sang, "Oh, 
Luce di Quest' Anima," Madame Sontag's celebrated 
Cavatina by Donizetti, the Swiss "Echo Song," and 
the favorite Scotch Ballad — "Coming Thro' the Rye." 

Later I kept the printed account of the appearance 
of Madame Henriette Sontag together with Paul 
Julien, the wonderful violinist, and Alfred Jaell, one 
of the first great pianists that visited American shores. 
Madame Sontag was a most brilliant coloratura soprano. 
Were she alive today, the Melbas, the Sembrichs and 
Tetrazzinis would have to hustle to compete with her. 
They are great memories to me, and I am thankful 
and grateful that I have heard them all. 

Nothing could have been further from my own mind 
when I made my first step, than the idea that I had 
in me the making of a stage artist of any description 
whatsoever. A constitutional shyness, or mistrust of 
myself, in facing an audience, was a marked trait in 
my disposition then, and I have not by any means 
entirely lived it down and probably never will. 

I have often been asked time and time again if I ever 
had stage fright. Have I ever had anything but stage 
fright? I have played the part of the "Sheriff of 
Nottingham" nearly nineteen hundred times and I 
cannot remember when I did not go on in a state of 
tremor and trepidation perfectly indescribable. Many 
and many a time I have called "Guy of Gisborne" 



62 REMINISCENCES OF 

from his dressing room, and insisted upon going 
through the lines of our first entrance, and often, as I 
entered the wings to go on, I have shouted in an agony 
of fear — "For heaven sake! somebody! Give me the 
first line of my song! Quick!!!" and then I would 
walk on, with a "know it all" look that would en- 
courage my helpers. I never forgot but once, and then 
I had the superhuman alertness and coolness, after 
looking up into the air for the missed line, to walk 
down to the first entrance, take the book from the 
prompter, and read it, to the intense amusement of the 
audience. 

It has been said that an actor must be scared nearly 
out of his five senses to make him brace up and show 
what he is made of. If that is true, I must have done 
fairly well, for, with me, it was a case of "brace up" 
from first to last, though I kept it to myself, and the 
audience never "caught on." Hardly a night passes, 
even now, in which I do not have some dream of 
getting onto the stage not knowing what I was going 
to sing or say. Stage fright! Well, I do not believe 
there is any terror like it except, perhaps, the first 
march on to a field of battle or the walk to the chair of 
electrocution, and I cannot write of either of them, 
from experience. 

I have said amateur entertainments were given in 
the Cameneum.* (Where did they get that name? I 



* The Cameneum was originally a Universalist Church built in 1784. 
The Universalists occupied the building until 1808 when they decided to 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 63 

never heard of it anywhere else, before or since.) At 
any rate, the Portsmouth Cameneum was a small 
public amusement hall, a short distance from the other 
temple dedicated to similar uses, rather primitive in its 
accommodations and adornments, yet with a certain 
citified air about it. Traveling combinations occasion- 
ally struck our town, and played there, with the aid of 
volunteer "supes" plentifully supplied from local talent. 

One of these companies had the temerity to "present" 
that thrilling spectacular play from the "Arabian 
Nights," entitled, "Ali Baba; or the Forty Thieves." 
At that time the introduction of a four-legged animal 
on the stage was considered a novel and effective piece 
of business. So Ali Baba's entrance riding on a jackass 
caused quite a sensation. When not "on," the long- 
eared bearer of burdens put in the time browsing about 
back of the theater. 

In the scene where Morgiana trips gaily from jar 
to jar wherein the thieves are concealed, and pours 
boiling oil on their helpless heads, eliciting a deep 

seek other quarters. Later, the Methodists being without a place of wor- 
ship, decided to purchase the Cameneum, which they did, occupying the 
same until 1827. After that, the building was converted into a theater and 
lecture-hall. It was in 1831 that the building was re-opened to the public, 
and it was the Rev. Dr. Burroughs who, while delivering the opening address, 
gave it the name of the Cameneum. The name that learned divine derived 
from Camenae, the nymphs of the Sacred Springs at the Porta Capena of 
ancient Rome from whence the Vestal Virgins drew water for the Temple 
of Vesta. Later these nymphs became identified with the Greek Muses, 
and the Cameneum meant the Temple of the Muses. When Daniel 
Webster made his farewell visit to Portsmouth, May 17, 1844, he greeted 
his old friends here for a social evening. The long and eventful career of 
the structure was brought to a close in 1883, when it was destroyed by fire. 
—Editor. 



64 REMINISCENCES OF 

groan from each, Balaam's friend suddenly took his 
cue. He raised a blood-curdling bray that shook the 
windows and lifted the audience out of their seats. 
There has been nothing so effective since in the annals 
of stagedom and only once since in the history of the 
real world, viz.: — the day on which a later-day re- 
former lifted the tops of some insurance jars and ex- 
posed to view the hidden "jacks." Then the groans 
of the gentlemanly robbers and the cries of the jackals 
could be heard all over our far East. 

The untimely bray of Ali Baba's ass proved a "frost" 
for the poor beast— it nipped his dramatic career in 
the bud. Subsequently, I saw him reduced to pulling 
an applesass wagon. His was a case of descension 
instead of as(s)cension in the player's world. 

About this time in my career the desire for public 
life and the laurels of artistic fame first began to gnaw 
at my vitals. We had organized a male glee quartette 
consisting of tenor, basso, soprano (falsetto), and con- 
tralto, and went about serenading wherever we thought 
the prospects of being invited in to partake of refresh- 
ments were most promising. 

In general, our church-choir origin betrayed itself 
in the religious character of our selections, such as: 
"I love to steal (awhile away)," or that other anthem 
chosen with reference to the daily occupation of our 
drug-clerk member, which wound up with the refrain: 
"And take thy pill — and take thy pill — and take thy 
pilgrim home." 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



65 



But when there were girls to be included among the 
innocent victims of our vocal raids we would choose 
some cheerful, sentimental ditty with words like these: 

One year ago, when the sun was low, 

Along with Elwin Alley, 
To chat and talk they took a walk — 

But she now sleeps in the valley. 

Our concerted numbers were handled with fearful 
and wonderful symphonic effects, if you please; so 
that the concluding line of the above choice stanza 
would fall upon charmed ears in something like the 
following fashion: — 

Bass — She now sleeps 

Tenor — She now sleeps 

Contralto — She now sleeps 

Soprano — She now sleeps 

All Together — She now sleeps i-i-in the 

Barber Shop Chord— Val-1-l-l-ley! 

Now wouldn't that make a birdie cry or a willow 
weep? 

Is it any wonder that our club made a hit? So much 
so, that nothing would do but we must go "out" on 
the road, to let the country bumpkins know what a 
wealth of song had been slumbering in the old town 
by the sea, and incidentally to gather in the shekels 
that doubtless would be "ours" at the mere mention 
of our advent. We saw visions of four ambitious and 
deserving young men, heralded as the leading expo- 
nents of modern melody, lined up on the brilliantly 



66 REMINISCENCES OF 

lighted stage, left hands in dress coat tail pockets, 
right hands resting on their manly chests or toying 
with plated watch-chains, the cynosure of admiring 
eyes, perchance the dream of palpitating maiden hearts, 
the while they filled the night with music, and their 
pockets with substantial rewards of merit. 

Oh, it was entrancing — too entrancing to last. Pa- 
rental discipline asserted itself, and I awoke. My 
father and mother would not hear of having their 
young Henry Clay exposed to the temptations and 
vicissitudes of garish stage life. Thus was my first 
impulse to flash as a wandering star rudely checked 
in its orbit. 

But still there was the Cameneum, and there was 
the Temple, and there were long-suffering home folks 
upon whom to practice. I was already working in 
Jones' dry-goods house, so I could afford to do this 
sort of thing in the evening for Art's sake. Also, there 
was no end of fun in it. 

One memorable night at the Temple, after our 
concert entertainments had gained some vogue, we 
had such a full house that seats had to be placed across 
the aisles, and the principal exits were blocked. I was 
on the stage singing "Rocked in the Cradle of the 
Deep," when suddenly, in the street outside, there 
arose a cry of "Fire," and the church bell began to 
clang. Immediately — in the twinkle of an eye — there 
was a commotion. 

I stopped singing, and, raising my hand, cried out: 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 67 

"If you will kindly keep your seats, I'll go and see 
where the fire is." With that I disappeared. 

The commotion increased, and there was danger of 
the audience stampeding, when a Mr. Coffin, who had 
paid his good shilling for a front seat, arose, and, 
gesticulating wildly, in the most violent language, 
commanded the people to sit down, and not to make 
fools of themselves. 

"Mr. Barnabee will return presently and tell us 
where the fire is," he repeated reassuringly. 

(The vitality with which people generally can ven- 
tilate the conduct of their neighbors, and the lightning 
changes they can make when it's their own toes that 
are being stepped upon had a vivid illustration at this 
concert.) 

Reappearing before the audience, I shouted: 

"Ladies and gentlemen, the fire is in Mr. Coffin's 
paint shop!" 

Mr. Coffin gave a wild yell and started for the door 
like an infuriated Texas steer. He scrambled over the 
tops of the benches and didn't hesitate to make use of 
heads and shoulders as stepping-stones. 

To that portion of my life's voyage passed on the 
four decks of Wm. Jones & Son's dry goods em- 
porium I have somewhat alluded. I was seasick the 
first day out, and wanted to go home. The fact that 
the stipendiary emoluments were not large made it all 
the more irksome. William Jones, the skipper, was 
a fine old New England Squire, with a weather eye 



68 REMINISCENCES OF 

always open to the main chance. William P. Jones, 
the mate, I remember as a tall, spider-legged being 
with a keen, calculating eye that could make a yard 
and three-quarters of stuff look like two yards, and a 
bargain at that. The head clerk, also, was a lynx-eyed 
and sharp-set underling who always kept us after 
hours if he could. 

On Cameneum nights, I would slip outside the store, 
take the shutter bolt from its hole, and through the 
latter give a good imitation of the whistling of the 
nor-northwest wind. Then the senior member of the 
firm would listen and say, "Come, boys, you may as 
well close up. It's too windy for any more customers 
tonight." You can imagine how surprised he was on 
leaving his store to find the night soft and balmy. 

However, inasmuch as the Jones' emporium was the 
practical commercial training school of the town — 
and as I had acquired one of those Daniel Webster 
blue coats with brass buttons, and was beginning to 
make an appreciable impression on my best girl, as 
well as to be "in on" all the festivities that were on 
tap, I stuck to the ship for four long years and learned 
to handle silks and muslins as well as canvas. In 
recognition of honest service rendered, I was allowed 
the privilege to handle the money-bags, night and 
morning. The only caustic criticism administered to 
me when I unduly prolonged the lunch hour, was: 
"Henry is a good boy, but he needs a little red pepper 
on his heels." 



Chapter VI 



STILL LINGERING IN OLD "PORCHMOUTH" 

A LIFELONG DESIRE. — MESSAGES FROM THE DEAD. — A 
SHOWER OF BEANS. — SOUR GRAPES. — THE FORBIDDEN 
PEAR. 

"/ hav finally cum tew the konkltishun, if a man kant be born but once, he 
had better issue proposals tew hav it dtin somewhare in Nu England." — Josh 
Billings. 

THE conductors on the railwa\ T trains call out 
"Porchmouth!" to this day. It was, and is 
still, a dear old place, unlike any other. As I 
here approach, reminiseently, the time of the "parting 
of the ways," when I went to seek my fortune in Boston, 
a tidal wave of recollections sweeps over my memory, 
and it is not easy to decide which, if any, of the nu- 
merous amusing incidents of that period may appro- 
priately be selected for preservation in this printed 
chronicle. 

I remember vividly the great storm of 1851, the 
same which destroyed the Minot's Ledge Lighthouse. 
The raging sea rolled far inland over the meadows, and 
it was necessary to go miles around in order to reach 
the rock-ribbed strand whence could be viewed the 
terrible majesty of the Atlantic breakers, and a full- 
rigged brigantine driving ashore, and all her crew 
gallantly saved from the wreck. It was like that 

69 



70 REMINISCENCES OF 

immortal Yarmouth Roads chapter in Dickens' "David 
Copperfield." That sublime terror of the sea remained 
ever after in my thoughts as ill comporting with the 
jaunty, sailor-like air which I assumed in singing 
"Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep." 

In a direction northeast across the water from Fort 
William and Mary (now Fort Constitution) stands 
Whaleback Lighthouse, a sentinel warning of danger 
in every form. 

If there is one place on this earth that I have never 
been in and that I have wanted to visit and to stay 
in over at least one night, it is a lighthouse. I have 
never been able to imagine anything so fascinating as 
to sit at the windows in perfect serenity and to watch 
the ocean ebb and flow and to note its varying moods 
of storm, wind and perfect calm — to watch the caress- 
ing waves as they foam upon the rocks as if to hold 
them in close embrace — in the moonlight, to see the 
heavenly orb as it emerges from the deep where the 
sky and the waters meet, and, as it rises, leaving a 
trail of crimson or silver over the ripples of the restless 
sea — and in the tempest, when the Supreme Will that 
"plants its footsteps in the sea and rides upon the 
storm," is manifesting His majestic strength and power, 
to see the gigantic waves as they come rushing with 
thundering roar and mighty force, as if to sweep the 
beacon light and its foundations into the caves of the 
ocean! — and through it all to feel the certainty that 
the light o'erhead was shining out over the angry 




Josephine Bartlett, the Lady 
Superior In "The Serenade" 
Marie Stone as Zerlina in "Fra 

Dlavolo" 

Jessie Bartlett Davis as the 

Indian Girl In "The Maid of 

Plymouth" 



Isabella McCullocb as the 
original Little Buttercup In 

"Pinafore" 
Alice Nielsen in "The Sere- 
nade" 
Juliette Corden In "Mlgnon" 



Agnes Huntington as Vladi- 
mir in "Fatlnitza" 
Adelaide Phillips the Peer- 
less, as Vladimir in "Fatln- 
itza" 
Marie Stone as Lydla in 
"Fatlnitza" 




5B C 

a g 
IS 3 



fcs'5 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 71 

waters to warn the watchful mariners of danger. There 
is a sublimity in the whole picture, too deep for any 
painting. 

An unknown friend, who must have known of my 
deep-seated partiality of such scenes, sent me an 
engraving of Whaleback Lighthouse, which has braved 
the elements that threaten the lower harbor of Ports- 
mouth for many a long year. For years the picture 
has been with me in all my homes, and in its guardian- 
ship of the entrance to Piscataqua's swift tides, the 
beacon has been a constant reminder of my youth 
and many happy hours in the city by the sea. The 
engraving is now in the Public Library at Portsmouth, 
and I am very glad that it has, at last, found an abiding 
place. 

"Off soundings" — or to be explicit, about nine 
miles from the outer harbor of Portsmouth, lies a small 
group of islands called "The Shoals." Many years 
ago, a Portsmouth editor, Thomas Laighton by name, 
after long years of unrewarded political service, grew 
sick and tired of the ingratitude of republics, bought 
himself one of the islands for a hermitage, and dwelt 
there ever afterward. His daughter, born in this 
isolated home, became Celia Thaxter, the poetess. 

Laighton erected a building of rambling design, 
which he dignified with the title of hotel, and conducted 
as a chowder resort and miniature Coney Island. He 
was ponderously obese, as befitted a landlord; and, 
planted immovably in an armchair in his office, entered 



72 REMINISCENCES OF 

the surnames of his guests on a slate, after asking, 
"What denomination?" which, it transpired, was a 
question of sex, and not of creed. He ran his house on 
the autocratic plan, ringing a bell on the roof as a 
signal for meals, regulating all accounts, and main- 
taining a general attitude of 

"I am monarch of all I survey 
My right there is none to dispute." 

And may I add that one of the occasional visitors 
at the Shoals was the Rev. Dr. Parkman, a well-known 
divine, and a brother of Professor George Parkman, 
whose sensational murder by Professor Webster of 
Harvard College sent a thrill of horror throughout the 
world a few years previous to the time of which I am 
now writing. It was on Dr. Parkman that Laighton, 
the "Emperor of the Isles," used to tell one of his best 
stories. 

It appears that the reverend gentleman's teeth 
were bad, so he went to Boston to a "gum architect." 
This dentist happened to be one of the pillars of an 
orthodox church, though neither he nor his patient 
knew of each other's religious calling and election. 
After the dental operation was over, the patient picked 
up a hand-mirror, looked at his devastated mouth, 
made a variety of facial contortions, then deliberately 
and more than once uttered aloud the sacred name 
of the Saviour. 

The dentist strode up to the patient and said sternly : 

"Sir, if the work I have done on your teeth is not 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 73 

satisfactory, say so, and I will make it right. But let 
me tell you that your blasphemous profanity I cannot 
and will not tolerate on my premises." 

"My good friend," cried the mortified cleric, "I was 
not swearing. This is the first time in thirty years 
that I have been able to pronounce the name of our 
Blessed Redeemer without whistling." 

While I was still a youth, spirit-rappings and table- 
tipping seances became the vogue, and here I attained 
the pinnacle of occult distinction — while it lasted. 
My modus operandi was unique, involving previous 
connivance and an elaborate code of signalling with 
confederates. 

Nature, I should presume, has gifted me with pe- 
culiarly flexible joints of the fingers and toes, so that 
I can — at least, I could — dislocate them at will, and 
then audibly snap them back in place. We would 
gather about a round table, half a dozen wide-awake 
boys and girls, and summon spirits from the vasty 
deep, who would answer impertinent questions and 
tell us things which we already knew, by weird and 
unaccountable knockings, on the alphabetic plan. 

My comrades of the Quartette were confederates 
who posted me on the little matters, mostly relating to 
sweethearts and the tender sentiment about which 
the girls put questions; while the responses were 
"snapped" out by my great toe, in a way that was 
positively uncannj'. 

One night, having "stood in" with a couple of my 



74 REMINISCENCES OF 

chums to mystify a lively bunch of girls, we sat with 
our knees against the legs and supports of a dining- 
room table, and made it dance like a boat on a choppy 
sea. After a sufficient amount of awe had been in- 
spired, the first question was asked: 

"Are there any sperrits (spirits) present?" 

Table uneasy (on-knees-y) . 

"Can you manifest yourselves in any other way?" 

Rap, rap! — from Henry Clay's toe. 

"How?" "Alphabetically?" 

"Sure," — or signals to that effect. 

Then the circus began. We found the late stage- 
driver, old Sandy Marden, — he of such regularity in 
his stage trips that all the farmers along the route set 
their clocks by his movements — who told me of the 
young lady who had failed to pay him fare for the last 
time she had been a passenger in his 'bus, but that he 
would collect it when they should meet below. The 
deceased Mr. Dunyon, the ice-cream man, reminded 
a blushing young couple that two of his spoons had 
disappeared simultaneously, on a day when they had 
visited his parlor. Shaffer, the departed dancing-mas- 
ter, asked me if I was still keeping up my heel-and-toe 
practice! And the wraith of a river boatman declared 
that if he ever got me on the River Styx he would 
take it out of me for the boat I had hired of him on the 
day Daniel Webster visited Portsmouth, by giving me 
a row that would make "Pull-and-be-D — d Point" (a 
local Scylla and Charybdis) seem like still water! 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 75 

On another occasion while we were awaiting the 
oracle's answer to the cryptic question, "Who struck 
Billy Patterson?" one of the boys gave my "snap" 
away by exclaiming — 

"Girls and fellows, Henry Barnabee can answer that 
just as well with his lips as with his toes!" 

This, all this, was more than fifty years ago. Yet, 
on a recent visit to Portsmouth I met an elderly lady 
who was one of the girls present on the memorable 
occasion just recalled, and who has never wearied of 
telling how the spirits "cut up" at that manifestation. 
I told her — what is, indeed, a painful fact — that over- 
work had so disabled my great toe that it was never 
right again, to this day. 

Life at Portsmouth was prodigal of events. At one 
of our choir rehearsals, on a Saturday evening, when, 
of course, we all sported our best Sunday-go-to- 
meeting attire, a certain vivacious Miss H — surrep- 
titiously filled the pocket-handkerchief of her beau 
with beans. The next morning, as this same beau, in 
his same store clothes that he had worn to the re- 
hearsal, stood in the choir-loft while the congregation 
joined in singing "Sowing the Seed," or "Scatter Bless- 
ings from on High," he whipped out his silk handker- 
chief to dab his fevered brow. Presto! A hailstorm of 
beans fell on the heads of the devoted worshippers, 
as though a bounteous Providence were showering 
down a miraculous supply of Boston's favorite food. 

Speaking of Boston and that "something to eat" 



76 REMINISCENCES OF 

that has since made it famous, let me recall here my 
first, brief, but ever memorable visit to that wheel-hub 
'round which the universal machine revolves. I had 
two weeks' vacation, and five dollars for spending 
money. Like Monte Cristo, the world was mine! To 
show what a game youngster I must have been, I will 
relate what a fearful and unforgotten "dent" was 
made in that "Five," the first day I struck town: 

Passing a fruiterer's store on Washington Street, I 
saw some grapes that looked good to me. In Ports- 
mouth, a bunch that size would cost a shilling. Here 
in Boston, I reckoned they would be dearer — perhaps 
fifteen cents, or even twenty. Never mind the expense — 
I wanted those grapes. 

"How much does that bunch weigh?" I inquired of 
the clerk, with the air of a Lucullus. 

"Pound and a half," he replied. 

"I'll take it," said I, "if you can change this bill" — 
handing him my precious five-spot. 

"That will be Three Dollars — Pound and a half of 
Black Hamburg, Hothouse Grapes, at Two Dollars per 
pound — three and one is four, and one is five. Thanks!" 

You could have knocked me down with a feather. 
There was a momentary panic in my financial midst, 
but I rallied, and choking off the mad impulse to de- 
mand my money back, went out and ate those grapes, 
at an estimated cost of about twelve cents per grape. 
I also swallowed the lesson that went with them, but, 
like the grapes, it didn't last very long. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 77 

While speaking about fruit, it may not be out of 
place here to relate how in after years I was led astray 
by a pear. It seems Mrs. Barnabee and I were stop- 
ping down in the country. Next door to us there was a 
fine big orchard, which was under the constant surveil- 
lance of three wicked looking bulldogs. 

From my window I had a splendid view of a big pear 
tree that had been stripped of its fruit the day before 
we arrived. One pear remained. It was without 
exception the finest, juiciest-looking pear I ever beheld 
at long range. I fell in love with that pear. So did 
Mrs. Barnabee. It was the old Adam and Eve story 
over again with a pear understudying the part of the 
apple. That pear made me feel like a boy again. I 
wouldn't have taken it as a gift at any price, but I'd 
have gone a mile out of my way to get it. I consulted 
with the cook of our establishment with regard to the 
habits of the bull dogs. 

"Oh, the dogs won't hurt you so long as you call 
them by their names," she exclaimed. "With strangers 
they're apt to stand on ceremony, but so long as you 
call them 'Daisy,' 'Flossie' and 'Tootsie' they'll treat 
you well." 

The cook led me to the window and gave me a long- 
distance introduction. Flossie I was to know by her 
milk-white left ear; Daisy was wall-eyed, and Tootsie 
was to be recognized by her formidable-looking coun- 
tenance. I spent the rest of the day in the window, 
throwing bones to them and helping them to get 






78 REMINISCENCES OF 

accustomed to my voice and features. As soon as it 
grew dark, Mrs. Barnabee helped to lower me over the 
fence. 

I reached the tree without experiencing any canine 
demonstrations. Everything seemed lovely, particu- 
larly that pear. I scrambled up the trunk and reached 
out my hand to grasp the forbidden fruit, when, with 
a three-ply roar of the most awful significance to me, 
the three dogs made a dash for the foot of the tree. I 
could see Mrs. Barnabee in the window wringing her 
hands. But I hadn't time to pay attention to her. 
The dogs were howling like all possessed, and one of 
them was leaping up in the air to within an inch and 
a half of my foot. The instant the dogs appeared their 
names went out of my head. I made a speaking 
trumpet of my hands and shouted to Mrs. Barnabee: 

"What's their names?" 

"I can't remember," she shouted back. "I'll go 
and get the cook." 

In ten minutes time Mrs. Barnabee came back and 
told me that it was the cook's night out. No one 
else in the house was on speaking terms with the 
dogs, so my wife asked if she should call a policeman. 

"Certainly not," I shouted. "I don't want to get 
arrested as well as bitten. I'll try my soubrette vo- 
cabulary on the dogs." 

So I set to work and called those infernal animals 
by every pet name that I ever heard of. I began with 
the chorus of our company, and went right through 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 79 

the feminine roster. But it wasn't a bit of good. Then 
I tried fancy names, but it wasn't any better. By this 
time it was pitch dark. The only light on the question 
was the candle which Mrs. Barnabee had set in the 
window to cheer me up. Every now and then she 
would call out some suggestion and express a fear that 
I should be catching cold if I sat out there much 
longer. I sat on that infernal bough until 12 o'clock, 
when the cook returned and propitiated the dogs with 
a late supper. And the pear? Oh, well, never mind 
about it. I believe it's hanging there yet. 



Chapter VII 



EARLY VISIT TO BOSTON 

I BEHOLD JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH. — EDWIN BOOTH'S 
DEBUT. — THE TRUE BOSTONIAN. 

"Life aint much more than a farce enny how, but it iz quite necessary that 
the flay should go on, and the farce be well added." — Josh Billings. 

IT was on this memorable visit to Boston that I 
first went to a real theater — the old, classic 
Museum. I saw Junius Brutus Booth, father 
of the since illustrious Edwin and the evil-starred 
John Wilkes. The elder Booth, on that occasion, 
played Brutus in John Howard Payne's tragedy of 
that name. I have only a general recollection of the 
powerful spell his somber, brooding aspect cast over 
me. Even then there were tales of his intemperate 
habits, of his being locked in his dressing-room to 
insure his being present when the call-boy went around, 
and of hard drinks imbibed through the keyhole by 
means of a trusty straw. 

But that sort of thing did not so much impress me 
as did subsequently the thought that during this same 
engagement at the Boston Museum, young Edwin 
Booth made his stage debut — on the 10th of September, 
1849 — playing the small part of Tressel to his father's 
Duke of Gloucester in "Richard III." 

80 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 81 

The fact that Edwin Booth was born on the 13th 
of November, 1833, and that my own first entrance 
upon this earthly stage — as already recorded in these 
chapters — was made on the very next day, has always 
seemed to me very interesting. 

The first of many unforgettable lessons in the art 
of acting which I acquired at the Museum came di- 
rectly through the oft-told tale recording an experience 
of young Booth, under the tutelage of his father in 
that remarkable debut. They say that when the boy 
came to his sire's dressing-room, dressed and made up 
to go on, the elder actor said: 

"So you are Tressel? Who was Tressel?" 

"A messenger from the field of Tewksbury." 

"What was his mission?" 

"To bear the news of the defeat of the King's party." 

"How did he make the journey?" 

"On horseback." 

"Where are your spurs?" 

Edwin glanced down, and said he had not thought 
of them. 

"Forgot them, did you? Here, take mine." 

Edwin unbuckled his sire's spurs, and fastened them 
on his own boots. His part being ended on the stage, 
he found his father still sitting in the dressing-room, 
apparently engrossed in thought. 

"Have you done well?" he asked. 

"I think so," replied the boy. 

"Give me my spurs," rejoined the father. 



82 REMINISCENCES OF 

As I have said, the legendary figure of Junius Brutus 
Booth did not at first sight loom quite so large in my 
boyish imagination as it grew to subsequently. Never- 
theless, as Shakespeare's fine declamatory lines rolled 
from the fiery tragedian's lips, he seemed a creature 
of uncanny power. 

I could readily understand why, despite his being a 
smallish man, his fellow-players and the stage hands 
were said to keep well out of his way as he came off 
with drawn sword, wrought up with the excitement of 
some violent scene. 

"This acting must be a great thing," thought I, 
"when it can make a man so formidable just by force 
of will." 

Though I didn't know it at the time, I was really 
undergoing my baptism of stage fire. Its effects were 
afterward manifested, when, as soon as I had settled 
down to live in Boston, I joined an amateur theatrical 
club which cast me for, and actually allowed me to 
play, Othello. 

Up to the time of this first Boston visit, notwith- 
standing my success as a table-tipper, quartetist, elo- 
cutionist, and village cut-up generally, my youthful 
fancy had not as yet even turned towards a stage 
career. If it had, the "home squelch" administered by 
my parents would have given it a quietus, for the time 
being, at least. Still, the idea was rapidly maturing 
in my mind that the chances of my laying up treasures 
on earth, on my salary, present and prospective, were 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 83 

too remote for anything like exact computation. I 
must strike out somehow, even though it were in the 
same old dry-goods line, if I would become a pros- 
perous captain of industry. 

Boston was the most accessible Pisgah's height from 
which to look the commercial landscape o'er. So, 
finally, when I came of age, in the year 1854, I cut 
loose from parental moorings, and embarked for 
Boston for keeps. There I struck "Jordan's stream" 
in the shape of a three-years' contract with that active 
organization, the emporium of Jordan & Marsh. 

I got my three-years' experience in three months, in 
which time I ascertained that the big business was 
conducted at a pace too swift for my conservative 
tendencies, even though a graduate from Jones's of 
Portsmouth. I shall never forget the characteristic 
reply of one of the firm to a customer who asked him 
how he could always be selling goods at a discount: 

"My dear sir, we are the good ship Constitution, 
seventy-one musicians, and a hundred and one guns, 
and our course is reckless and onward." 

Acting upon their possibly ironical suggestion that 
I might do better for a more conservative firm, I lost 
no time in disengaging myself from Jordan & Marsh. 
Simultaneously, by the aid of a strong letter of recom- 
mendation from my Portsmouth pastor, the Rev. 
Andrew P. Peabody, I formed with the well-known 
dry-goods house of C. F. Hovey & Co. a connection 
destined to last over eleven vears of the formative 



84 REMINISCENCES OF 

period of my life, and to give me ideals of business 
integrity and honor that are best epitomized by the 
name cut in solid granite over the front of their store. 

Mr. Hovey was a superior character, and he would 
have been just as successful in any other line of en- 
deavor which he might have undertaken. As I was 
indebted to his kind encouragement for the first sug- 
gestion, the first real boost, of my proper career — as 
will be shown in the next succeeding chapters — I pause 
to pay his memory this passing tribute. 

The enlightened city was destined to be my home 
for many years, the scene of my first efforts in the line 
of public entertainment, the metropolis from which 
the companies I have been connected with took their 
names. It may be not amiss, therefore, to set down a 
few anecdotal sayings, illustrative of the esteem and 
appreciation in which Boston is held by her children 
and inhabitants generally. Whenever, in after years, 
we Bostonians were invited to any "swarry," function, 
banquet, or other social struggle, it never failed that 
some alleged wag would arise and make a bid for 
reputation as a wit by trotting out those trite old 
allusions to the "Hub of the Universe," the "Athens 
of America," the transcendent east wind, and the 
bean-eating prowess of Boston's people. I would 
always restrain myself, and, without any visible sign 
of bloodthirstiness, acknowledge the corn, as well as 
the beans, and then work in my anecdotes, by way of 
squaring things. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 85 

Now, I shall not be so hard upon my readers as to 
bring out here that inexhaustible stock of wise saws 
and modern instances, or "blow" in my whole fund of 
Bostoniana at once. But a few characteristic ones I 
must recall, by way of showing the general estimate of 
the New England metropolis by those who know^it best. 

For one thing, Boston is the paradise of the female 
sex. Ladies may safely go almost anywhere unattended. 
No Boston gentleman will allow them to hang on 
straps in a public conveyance, so Jong as he has a seat 
to give up. For this courtesy, polite thanks are in- 
variably rendered. On one occasion, when a colored 
man had thus given his place, the lady who took it 
said, "I am sorry to deprive you of your seat." 

"No depravity, ma'am; no depravity," replied the 
Chesterfieldian darkey. 

Two sisters of uncertain age having lived together 
there for the greater part of a lifetime, one of them 
passed away, leaving the other inconsolable. The 
surviving sister, after long urging, was finally induced 
to attend one of those spiritualistic seances which 
from time immemorial have kept Boston in close touch 
with the Great Beyond. In due time the old lady 
heard her name called, and she was placed in commu- 
nication with the absent loved one. After the first 
greeting, she asked, "Where are you?" and the answer 
came, "In heaven." "Well, are you happy?" "Ye-es," 
was the wistful reply — "but, oh, Ann dear, it isn't 
Boston." 



86 REMINISCENCES OF 

Someone has gone a little farther than this and has 
given us in rhyme the deceased one's conversation 
with St. Peter, the guard at the gates of heaven. After 
arriving at the outer door of the celestial sphere, St. 
Peter questions the Bostonian — 

"Sir, what claim do you present 
To us to be admitted here?" 
The Bostonian — "In Boston I was born and bred, 
And in her schools was educated; 
I afterward at Harvard rear'd 
And was with honors graduated. 

"In Trinity a pew I own, 

Where Brooks is held in such respect; 
And the society is known 

To be the cream of the select. 

"In fair Nahant — a charming spot — 

I own a villa, lawns, arcades, 
And, last, a handsome burial lot 

In dead Mount Auburn's hallowed shades." 

St. Peter mused and shook his head, 
Then, as a gentle sigh he drew, 
"Go back to Boston, friend," he said, 
"Heaven isn't good enough for you." 

Another Bostonian — a Beacon Hill lady, out driving 
in the near suburbs, came upon a square white mile- 
stone, with an inscription on it, in plain view by the 
roadside. It had been newly whitewashed, and the 
lettering stood out distinctly: 




One o( Barnabee's wives In 
"Fatlnltza" 

Jessie Bartlett Davis, the 

original Alan -a- Dale in 

•'Robin Hood" 

Hattle Brown, another of 

Barnabee*s four wives In 

"Fatlnltza" 



Zelie De Lussan in the 

"Bohemian Girl" 
Annie Louise Cary, one or 
the world's greatest con- 
traltOS. She made her first 
appearance under the man- 
agement of Mr. Barnabee 
Marie Stone as Zerllna In 
"Fra Dlavolo" 



Marie Si one as Galatea In 
"Pygmalion and Galatea" 



Alice Nielsen in 
Winkle' 



•Rip Van 



Jessie Bartlett Davis as 

Cynlsca In "Pygmalion and 

Galatea" 




Camille D'Arville 

Jessie Bartlett Davis in "The 
Serenade" 

Josephine Bartlett in "Rob 
Roy" 



Helen Bertram and Marcia 
Van Dresser in "Vice-Roy" 

Jessie Bartlett Davis as a 
Mexican girl 

Helen Bertram in "Rob Roy" 



Helen Bertram and Marcia 
Van Dresser in "Vice-Roy' 

Jessie Bartlett Davis in "Rip 
Van Winkle" 

Marcia Van Dresser 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 87 

1M 

From 
Boston 

"See there," she exclaimed to her companion, "the 
epitaph on that lone gravestone reads 'I'm from 
Boston!' How simple, yet how sufficient!" 

Without intention of disparagement to any other 
locality, I may say that this was and is about my own 
sentiment regarding the good old town. 

Boston, like Portsmouth, has many historic buildings, 
but the one in particular that every Bostonian points 
to with pride is the Old South Meeting House. 

In this House, in March, 1770, after the Boston 
Massacre, an overflowing town meeting waited till 
night, while Samuel Adams went back and forward to 
the State House till Hutchinson yielded and withdrew 
his regiments to Castle Island. 

In this House, on November 29, 1773, a meeting of 
five thousand citizens resolved that the tea should 
not be landed. During the following month the war- 
whoop was raised at the door of this House, and citi- 
zens disguised as savages led the way to the tea ships. 
We know what followed. 

Here, in this memorable building, were delivered 
the series of orations from 1771 to 1775 commemorative 
of the Boston Massacre, by Lovell, Warren, Church 
and Hancock. In 1775, by order of Gen. Burgoyne, a 
riding school for British troops was established, pews 
and pulpit being torn away and destroyed. 



88 REMINISCENCES OF 

At one time there was danger that the historic 
building, situated in the very heart of the business 
district, would have to be torn down to make way for 
mercantile grab and greed, to which there was the most 
patriotic resistance. A large sum had to be raised to 
prevent it, and this was done by every conceivable 
method. 

Entertainments of all kinds were given in the old 
edifice, and at one of them the literary celebrities read 
from their works. I was there and heard it. Dr. 
Oliver Wendell Holmes read "Dorothy Q," and the 
portrait, with the rapier thrust, was on the platform 
beside him. Mr. Smith read "My Country 'Tis of 
Thee" and stated that could he have anticipated the 
celebrity this poem would attain he should have 
taken more pains with it— "and spoiled it," inter- 
rupted Ralph Waldo Emerson. Mr. Emerson read 
his "Concord Hymn." 

On another occasion Dr. Holmes offered "Grand- 
mother's Tea Party," and James Russell Lowell, 
"Castles in Spain." 



Chapter VIII 



TUNING UP AND PLAYING 

MR. J. Q. WETHERBEE, MY SINGING MASTER. — A DOCTOR 
OF MUSIC, MEDICINE AND MINSTRELSY. THE MERCAN- 
TILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION. — MY NAME IN PRINT. — 
BURDENED WITH THEATRICAL RESPONSIBILITIES. 

"I suppose there are two kinds of music— one kind which one feels, just as 
an oyster might, and another sort which requires a higher faculty, a faculty 
which must be assisted and developed by teaching." — Mark Twain. 

IT was shortly after I had settled down in Boston 
as a dry goods clerk at Hovey's emporium that 
I began to take my vocalism seriously. Music 
forms an important part of the intellectual currency 
there, and I began to ask myself: If this voice were 
worked as a vein, might it not lead eventually to a 
mine? It was worth trying. 

Accordingly, I lopped off several creature comforts 
from my scale of living expenses, and devoted the 
portion of my salary thus snatched from the burn- 
ing to having my tones properly placed. Mr. J. Q. 
Wetherbee was the "placer" par excellence.* 



* It may not be out of place to insert a few lines here regarding Mr. 
Barnabee's singing master — Mr. J. Q. Wetherbee. Mr. Wetherbee, in 
addition to what Mr. Barnabee has said, sang in the celebrated quartette 
choir of Old South Church, took all the prominent bass solo parts in the 
Handel and Haydn Society concerts, and taught music, though he was not 
quite as successful in getting large numbers of scholars as many other 
teachers of less education and far less ability. This was due to the fact that 

89 



90 REMINISCENCES OF 

Mr. Wetherbee was an accomplished gentleman, a 
superb singer, and was in demand as a soloist at all 
prominent musicals. That he "placed" my voice in 
the right spot may be taken as a self-evident fact, 
since after fifty years of arduous service it still remains 
in the same locality. Moreover, notwithstanding an 
occasional bad notice in the press or head-shake of 
trusty friends, it is today as fresh, vigorous and sonor- 
ous an organ as it was in the early days, when I sang 
"Lady of Beauty, Away, Away," to the right upper 
corner window of a certain domicile in Daniel Street, 
Portsmouth. 

Whenever, in after years, it became necessary, for 
purposes of eclat, or in order to refute critics who 
showed a mean disposition to label me a "church choir 
singer," to state the source of my musical education — 
when it was up to me to answer the question "Under 
whom did you study?" my reply was: "Adverse 
circumstances and J. Q. Wetherbee." 

Privately I have always entertained the notion that 
the best singers are born, not made. Jenny Lind, 
Henriette Sontag, Adelina Patti, Marcella Sembrich, 

he was too exacting in his requirements. According to a critic of his times> 
he was a vocalist after the Sims Reeves school, knowing all about the vocal 
organs, and exactly how to train them in the most careful, perfect manner 
to attain the best possible results. No voices were injured or ruined through 
his ignorance and carelessness, but were, on the other hand, benefitted and 
made more beautiful and perfect by his intelligent, instructive, skilful 
method. He left Boston disgusted, so we have been informed, because the 
people preferred a shorter and a charlatan method to an educated, intelli- 
gent common sense one such as he imparted. While he left a few good 
exponents of his sound instruction, he starved while quacks flourished and 
grew fat. — Editor. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 91 

Nellie Melba, Lillian Nordica, Pol Plancon, Enrico 
Caruso, and others we might name sang like birds as 
soon as they could talk; and — well, modesty forbids 
self personalities. 

Suffice it to say that I took a minor position in 
the Rev. Dr. Stowe's Baptist Church on Chauncey 
Street. My principal recollection of that association, 
beyond that it kept me in good practice and gained 
me several valuable friendships, is of the organ playing 
of Dr. John P. Ordway. 

Not that Ordway was precisely in the class of Eddy, 
Guilmant, or Saint-Saens, but he had a fashion of 
mingling sacred and profane music that would have 
staggered even those masters. But this was not all. 
"Doc" Ordway was a medical practitioner on week 
days, and also the organizer and proprietor of a popu- 
lar negro minstrel troupe, which played Boston and 
the New England circuits continuously for several 
years. 

Music, medicine and minstrelsy — a trinity of M's. 
The combination was an ideal one, in some respects, 
and marked Doctor Ordway as the patriarch pioneer 
of our latter-day Actors' Church Alliance. But some- 
times, of a Sabbath morning, he would mix things up 
with a recklessness that sent cold chills chasing up 
and down my spine. 

He would beckon me aside just before the organ 
response to the prayer, and eagerly whispering, "Have 
you heard my latest tune?" would allow the strains of 



92 REMINISCENCES OF 

"Twinkling Stars are Laughing, Love" to filter slyly 
through the solemn harmonies of the response. 

Often he would freeze my young blood by playing 
that hard-shelled orthodox Baptist congregation out 
of church with a crazy combination of "Old Hundred," 
executed with the left hand and pedals, and "Sweet 
Ham Bone" or "Climbin' up dem Golden Stairs," or 
some other coon classic provided for the minstrel show, 
harmonized and deftly embroidered in with the right. 

While it was in progress I shivered with dread lest 
some sensitive ear should detect the double deal in 
the organ loft, and my gifted improvisational friend 
be ignominiously ejected by the old sexton and an 
able-bodied but too critical deacon. 

At about this time the Mercantile Library Associa- 
tion was approaching the zenith of its fame and pros- 
perity. It was a sort of a Y. M. C. A. and Cooper 
Institute combined, with particular stress laid on its 
monthly entertainments, at which vocalism and elo- 
cution were unchained. The Society had new and 
commodious quarters on Summer Street, just below 
Hawley. It had a well-stocked library, a hall for 
entertainments, and a spacious reading-room with its 
single, isolated work of art, a statuette of "The 
Wounded Indian," in a glass case, with a "scorn-your 
proffered - treaty — the - paleface - I - defy" expression 
on his noble but dust-begrimed marble features. Why 
a "Wounded Indian" in this educational institution, 
I never could understand. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 93 

Several actors subsequently famous received their 
early training in the old Mercantile Library Associa- 
tion — notably Edwin Adams, W. E. Sheridan, and 
Dan Setchell. The last named, it may be necessary to 
recall, was the clever comedian who, when the elder 
Sothern and Joe Jefferson were playing "Dundreary" 
and "Our American Cousin" in the comedy of the 
latter name, raised the small part of the butler into 
prominence by juggling his h's. 

I remember Dan and the way in which he used to 
strut forth declaring "The 'orn hof the 'unter his 'eard 
hon the 'ill." (The horn of the hunter is heard on the 
hill.) He carried a large sheet of foolscap covered 
with H's, and, holding it up to the audience, exclaimed: 

"Why h'am h'l so h'insulted? h'lve no h'use for 
'em!" He didn't, perhaps, learn this trick at the 
M. L. A., but he acquired there the habit of building 
up a character by means of original touches observed 
in real life, and this was one of them, when it was new. 

So theM. L. A. became my first serious training school. 
Pardon a step backward, but I must here revert to Ports- 
mouth, in order to mention that at the Cameneum 
there we used to have a sort of imitation Mercantile 
Library entertainment, where I had made an unex- 
pected hit by tackling the following heavy declamation: 

PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE 

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully 
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, 



94 REMINISCENCES OF 

Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus — 

The vulture at his vitals, and the links 

Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; 

And as the painter's mind felt through the dim, 

Rapt mystery, and pluck'd the shadows forth 

With its far-reaching fancy, and with form 

And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye 

Flash'd with a passionate fire, and the quick curl 

Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip, 

Were like the wing'd god's, breathing from his flight. 

"Bring me the captive now! 
My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift 
From my waked spirit airily and swift, 

And I could paint the bow 
Upon the bended heavens — around me play 
Colors of such divinity today. 

"Ha! bind him on his back! 
Look! — as Prometheus in my picture here! 
Quick — or he faints! — stand with the cordial near! 

Now — bend him to the rack! 
Press down the poison' d links into his flesh! 
And tear agape that healing wound afresh! 

"So — let him writhe! How long 
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! 
What a fine agony works upon his brow! 

Ha! gray-hair'd, and so strong! 
How fearfully he stifles that short moan! 
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan! 

"'Pity' thee! Soldo! 
I pity the dumb victim at the altar — 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 95 

But does the robed priest for his pity falter? 

I'd rack thee, though I knew 
A thousand lives were perishing in thine — 
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine? 

" 'Hereafter!' Ay — hereafter! 
A whip to keep a coward to his track! 
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back 

To check the skeptic's laughter? 
Come from the grave tomorrow with that story 
And I may take some softer path to glory. 

"No, no, old man! we die 
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away 
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they! 

Strain well thy fainting eye— 
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, 
The light of heaven will never reach thee more. 

"Yet there's a deathless name! 
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, 
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn — 
And though its crown of flame 
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, 
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on! 

"Ay — though it bid me rifle 
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — 
Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd first — 

Though it should bid me stifle 
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild — 

"All— I would do it ail- 
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot — 



96 REMINISCENCES OF 

Thrust foully into earth to be forgot! 
heavens! — but I appall 

Your heart, old man! forgive ha! on your lives 

Let him not faint! — rack him till he revives! 

"Vain — vain — give o'er! His eye 
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — 
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow! 

Gods! if he did not die 
But for one moment — one — till I eclipse 
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips! 

"Shivering! Hark! he mutters 
Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath — 
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death! 

Look! how his temple flutters! 
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! 
He shudders — gasps — Jove help him! — so — he's dead." 

How like a mounting devil in the heart 

Rules the unrein'd ambition! Let it once 

But play the monarch, and its haughty brow 

Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought 

And unthrones peace forever. Putting on 

The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns 

The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 

Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip, 

We look upon our splendor and forget 

The thirst of which we perish! — N. P. Willis. 

This formidable blank verse stunt I offered with all 
the boldness and vim of a novice half dead with stage 
fright. In ordering the slaves to bind and torture that 
unhappy victim, in order that I might from his agony 
produce a masterpiece of art, I was absolutely relentless. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 97 

"Let him die!" I shouted, as I dabbed my imaginary 
brushes on a palette of thin air, and then in dexterous 
pantomime plied them on an invisible canvas. Thus I 
"acted out" the whole painting of a picture, and 
Portsmouth critics said it was a "fine rendition." And 
I had meant it should be, because earlier, on the same 
program, as one of the principals in a debate, I had 
begun with a "peroration," and then stopped short, 
having nothing more prepared. 

So when I started on my Boston career, I felt at the 
outset that the real, original and simon-pure Mercan- 
tile Library Association was the place for me. Some- 
thing told me that here would be the proper place to 
exploit my newly surmised gift of elocution. I lost 
no time in connecting myself with that illustrious 
preparatory school, and for a season I did the strictly 
"legit" in the recitation line, "Parrhasius" still being 
my trump card. 

At the close of that season, when the declamation 
class held its public exercises in the Tremont Temple 
before an audience of two thousand people, I had the 
paralyzing honor of being among those who "also 
recited." My selection on this occasion was not 
"Parrhasius," but a companion piece to it known as 

THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT 

Night in Arabia. An hour ago, 

Pale Dian had descended from the sky, 

Flinging her cestus out upon the sea, 



98 REMINISCENCES OF 

And at their watches, now, the solemn stars 

Stood vigilant and lone; and, dead asleep, 

With not a shadow moving on its breast, 

The breathing earth lay in its silver dew, 

And, trembling on their myriad, viewless wings, 

Th' imprisoned odors left the flowers to dream, 

And stole away upon the yielding air. 

Ben Khorat's tower stands shadowy and tall 

In Mecca's loneliest street; and ever there, 

When night is at the deepest, burns his lamp 

As constant as the Cynosure, and forth 

From his loop'd window stretch the brazen tubes, 

Pointing forever at the central star 

Of that dim nebula just lifting now 

Over Mount Arafat. The sky tonight 

Is of a clearer blackness than is wont, 

And far within its depths the colored stars 

Sparkle like gems — capricious Antares 

Flushing and paling in the Southern arch; 

And azure Lyra, like a woman's eye, 

Burning with soft blue lustre; and away 

Over the desert the bright Polar star, 

White as a flashing icicle; and here, 

Hung like a lamp above th' Arabian sea, 

Mars with his dusky glow; and fairer yet, 

Mild Sirius, tinct with dewy violet, 

Set like a flower upon the breast of Eve; 

And in the zenith sweet Pleiades 

(Alas — that even a star may pass from heaven 

And not be miss'd) — the linked Pleiades 

Undimmed are there, though from the sister band 

The fairest has gone down; and, south away, 

Hirundo with its little company; 

And white-browed Vesta, lamping on her path 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 99 

Lonely and planet-calm, and, all through heaven, 
Articulate almost, they troop tonight, 
Like unrobed angels in a prophet's trance. 

* * * * Ben Khorat rose 
And silently looked forth upon the East. 
The dawn was stealing up into the sky 
On its gray feet, the stars grew dim apace, 
And faded, till the Morning Star alone, 
Soft as a molten diamond's liquid fire, 
Burn'd in the heavens. The morn grew freshlier — 
The upper clouds were faintly touched with gold; 
The fan-palms rustled in the open air; 
Daylight spread cool and broadly to the hills; 
And still the star was visible, and still 
The young astronomer with straining eye 
Drank its departing light into his soul. 
It faded — melted — and the fiery rim 
Of the clear sun came up, and painfully 
The passionate scholar press'd upon his eyes 
His dusky fingers, and, with limbs as weak 
As a sick child's, turn'd fainting to his couch, 
And slept. ******* 

* It was the morning watch once more. 

The clouds were drifting rapidly above, 

And dim and fast the glimmering stars flew through, 

And as the fitful gust sough'd mournfully, 

The shutters shook, and on the sloping roof 

Plash'd heavily large, single drops of rain — 

And all was still again. Ben Khorat sat 

By the dim lamp, and, while his scholar slept, 

Pored on the Chaldee wisdom. At his feet, 

Stretch'd on a pallet, lay the Arab boy, 



100 REMINISCENCES OF 

Muttering fast in his unquiet sleep, 

And working his dark fingers in his palms 

Convulsively. His sallow lips were pale, 

And, as they moved, his teeth showed ghastly through, 

White as a charnel bone, and— closely drawn 

Upon his sunken eyes, as if to press 

Some frightful image from the bloodshot balls — 

His lids a moment quivered, and again 

Relaxed, half open, in a calmer sleep. 

Ben Khorat gazed upon the dropping sands 
Of the departing hour. The last white grain 
Fell through, and with the tremulous hand of age 
The old astrologer reversed the glass; 
And, as the voiceless monitor went on, 
Wasting and wasting with the precious hour, 
He look'd upon it with a moving lip, 
And, starting, turn'd his gaze up to the heavens, 
Cursing the clouds impatiently. 

"Tis time!" 
Mutter'd the dying scholar, and he dash'd 
The tangled hair from his black eyes away, 
And, seizing on Ben Khorat's mantle-folds, 
He struggled to his feet, and falling prone 
Upon the window ledge, gazed steadfastly 
Into the East: — 

"There is a cloud between — 
She sits this instant on the mountain's brow, 
And that dusk veil hides all her glory now — 

Yet floats she as serene 
Into the heavens! — O God, that even so 
I could o'ermount my spirit-cloud, and go! 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 101 

"The cloud begins to drift! 
Aha! fling open! 'tis the star — the sky! 
Touch me, immortal mother! and I fly! 

Wider! thou cloudy rift 
Let through! — such glory should have radiant room! 
Let through! — a star-child on its light goes home! 

"Speak to me, brethren bright! 
Ye who are floating in these living beams! 
Ye who have come to me in starry dreams! 

Ye who have wing'd the light 
Of our bright mother with its thoughts of flame — 
(I knew it passed through spirits as it came) — 

"Tell me! what power have ye? 
What are the heights ye reach upon your wings? 
What know ye of the myriad wondrous things 

I perish but to see? 
Are ye thought rapid?— Can ye fly as far — 
As instant as a thought, from star to star? 

"Where has the Pleiad gone? 
Where have all missing stars found light and home? 
Who bids the Stella Mira go and come? 

Why sits the Pole-star alone? 
And why, like banded sisters, through the air 
Go in bright troops the constellations fair? 

"Ben Khorat! dost thou mark? 
The star! the star! By heaven! the cloud drifts o'er! 
Gone — and I live! nay— will my heart beat more? 

Look! master! 'tis all dark — 
Not a clear speck in heaven! — my eyeballs smother! 
Break through the clouds once more! — oh, starry mother! 



102 REMINISCENCES OF 

"I will He down! Yet stay, 
The rain beats out the odor from the gums, 
And strangely soft tonight the spice- wind comes! 

I am a child alway 
When it is on my forehead! Abra sweet, 
Would I were in the desert at thy feet! 

"My barb! my glorious steed! 
Methinks my soul would mount upon its track 
More fleetly, could I die upon thy back! 

How would thy thrilling speed 
Quicken my pulse! O Allah! I get wild! 
Would that I were once more a desert child! 

"Nay — nay — I had forgot! 
My mother! my star mother! — Ha! my breath 
Stifles! — more air! — Ben Khorat, this is — death! 

Touch me! — I feel you not! 
Dying! — Farewell! good master! — room! — more room! 
Abra! I loved thee! star! bright star! I — come!" 

— Nathaniel P. Willis. 

The line — "The Scholar of Ben Khorat". .H. C. 
Barnabee — of the program, though it was in Part 
Second, and by no means a topper, is burned into my 
memory, being the first time my name had ever ap- 
peared in print. Equally unforgettable is the "notice" 
of the event which appeared in the Transcript next day : 

" 'The Scholar of Ben Khorat' (Willis), was spoken 
in an easy and correct manner by H. C. Barnabee." 

Probably some other "stunts" were mentioned in 
that notice, but the important sentence I have quoted 
is the only one I now recall. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



103 



That settled my course — for the time being, at least. 
I was elected chairman of the declamation committee 
for the next season, with the promise of assistance. 
When the time approached "for making good" in my 
position, I became nervous, and feared the worst. 
It came duly to hand. On the very day that the final 
program was decided upon, I found to my horror that 
the two comedians who had been the light of our 
happy dramatic home had both listened to the call of 
duty in other spheres, and were not among those 
present at the final rehearsals. In short I was, to use 
the slang expression, "up against it," and — here my 
accident theory, referred to in the previous chapters, 
looms up again. There was nothing for it but to bill 
myself as the chief attraction and Protean star, and 
then live up to the advertisement. 

Well, I "made good" — though this theatrical phrase 
had not then been coined — by singing a ballad, taking 
part in a Shakespearian scene — Brutus and Cassius, 
I believe it was — and then, to prepare the audience for 
the farcical flop in the after piece which concluded the 
entertainment, I made a quick study of a humorous 
narrative ditty entitled, "A Trip to Niagara Falls." 

This comic song was the "Waiting at the Church" 
of that day — the middle fifties. Its original exploiter 
had been a versatile monologuist named Ossian E. 
Dodge, the man who made himself famous by bidding 
six hundred dollars for choice of seats at the first Jenny 
Lind concert in Boston. 



104 REMINISCENCES OF 

My monumental effrontery in thus undertaking a 
quadruple debut and getting away with it, marked the 
actual beginning of my public career, though I didn't 
know it at that time. But the M. L. A. promptly 
picked me out as promising timber, sober and indus- 
trious, and a willing worker. So they fitted me into 
all the various places that were available, because 
nobody wanted them. 

I became acting director, master of the revels, play 
censor, barker, stage manager, prompter, tragic come- 
dian, trained vocalist, musical conductor and driver, 
facial contortionist, comic warbler and was expected 
to be able to play a horn in the orchestra — all vrithout 
salary and no thanks! 

My painstaking disposition and acute New England 
conscience caused me to exert myself and memorize 
practically all of the acts to be performed, so as to be 
ready, at signals of distress, to "throw out the life- 
line" to any actor who stood transfixed, wondering 
what he was going to say next. 

As the Association had no lady members, and its 
young actors did not feel equal to female impersona- 
tions, after the manner of Shakespeare's time, it was 
necessary in many of our plays to transpose the sex 
of some of the principal characters. To me, as stage 
director, fell this delicate task, and I became an ingen- 
ious expert in turning Marys into Josephs, and hers 
into hims, all 'round. 

The role of dictator, in case of any conflict of au- 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



105 



thority, sat becomingly upon me. I drew some mighty 
fine psychological distinctions in giving my advice to 
the players, or rebuking any symptoms of thought and 
originality which ambitious underlings might develop 
in shaping the conception of their respective parts. 

On one occasion, when the would-be tragedian was 
delaying the "show" too long by going into hiding on 
the O. P. side of the stage, I sent a hurry call as to what 
he might be doing. 

"Killing Duncan," he replied. 

"Yes, and you are also murdering 'Macbeth'!" I 
yelled, in noble artistic rage from my coign of vantage. 

Thus for three or four crowded years, as a Boston 
prototype of Frohman, I catered to the elite of the 
community, and strove to "give the public what it 
wanted." But church music, dry-goods, matrimonial 
aspirations, and other varied interests pulled me in a 
dozen different directions. 

After the happening which I shall relate in the next 
succeeding chapter, I reluctantly resigned my im- 
portant but financially unproductive position in the 
M. L. A. Whether as a result of my withdrawal, or 
because it was on the cards of manifest destiny any- 
way, the institution from that period lapsed into in- 
nocuous desuetude, and finally closed its checkered 
career in the parlors of a two-story dwelling house 
up town. 

What a come-down for the mighty! Like ancient 
Carthage and imperial Rome, like Humpty-Dumpty 



106 REMINISCENCES OF 

and Maginty of more recent times, it never recovered 
from its fall. But the recollection of it all has not 
gone to decay. I often dwell with pleasure and pride 
on the "good nights" when I was the observed of all 
observers, got "great notices" in the local papers, 
and even had the thrilling personal sensation of hearing 
the girls on the front seats whisper: "Isn't he just too 
cute for anything?" 

The old stage door of the M. L. A. that swung open 
to greet me as an amateur entertainer opened the way 
that was to lead me to starry domes and professional 
heights. On that "gone but not forgotten" stage and 
before the most critical bean eaters of 1856 I made 
my first real attempt as a vocalist, my first bow as a 
Shakespearian artist, my first efforts as a comic 
warbler, and my first appearance as a comedian. 

In the words of Henry Esmond I had learned that 
"no man knows his strength 'till occasion proves it." 
The opportunity presenting itself, I put my strength 
to the test, and when the tide came in, I took it at its 
flood, passed the narrows and sailed away to the open 
sea, under full sail, with colors frying. 



Chapter IX 



CUSTOMERS, COMMUTERS AND COSTUMES 



A COMEDY OF ERRORS. — STUDYING CUSTOMERS. — SINGING 
"ABROAD." — IN SHAKESPEARIAN GARB. 

"In this glorious and well-fought field, 
We kept together in our chivalry." 

— Wm. Shakespeare. 

DURING all these years of Mercantile Library 
Association activity, and for several years after, 
I was, by day, diligently following my avocation 
as head of a department to which I had been promoted 
at Hovey's Emporium, and evenings pursuing the even 
basso of my way at concert entertainments and the 
like. The only drawback I suffered was a constant 
dread lest my employers should take it into their heads 
that vocal acoustics and yardsticks were incompati- 
ble, and thus cut me off in the blossom of my double 
career. 

One day I was sent for to go to the counting-room. 
Up to that time I had met Mr. Hovey but once. Now 
an "all gone" feeling overcame me, and I felt as good 
as decapitated. 

"It has come at last," I muttered to myself, as I 
walked the "plank" to the captain's office with fear and 
trembling. 

107 



108 REMINISCENCES OF 

Mr. Hovey received me so graciously that my 
heartbeats and temperature went back to normal 
again. 

"I have been to the M. L. A.," said my employer, 
"and I was much pleased with your performance. 
In my opinion you ought to cultivate your mimetic 
as well as vocal powers, which are quite unusual." 

He ended by inviting me to dine at his house, and, 
incidentally, to help him entertain, with my Yankee 
impersonations, a "rising young divine" who was to 
visit him. 

To say that I was "decomposed" and my soul seem- 
ingly "transposed" inadequately expresses my surprise 
at the proposition. But, like a good Yankee, I came to, 
accepted the invitation and proceeded to pull myself 
together for the occasion. 

At the dinner table Mr. Hovey said, as he stood up 
to carve the joint: 

"I have not asked my friend to say grace, because 
I know he doesn't believe in such things." 

"That is all right," responded the reverend gentle- 
man tranquilly. "Perhaps it will be better to wait 
and see if there is anything to thank a bountiful 
Providence for." 

It struck me that that was a broad statement for a 
clergyman to make; but I made up my mind he would, 
therefore, be all the more easily entertained. 

Then he told a good story about Daniel Webster, 
which I have carried in my repertory ever since, but 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 109 

which I thought a little worldly for a divinity student, 
and I retorted with a stunt, all the while thinking 
that for a clergyman our friend was a "brick," what- 
ever he thought about me. 

For a final test I came along with "Ethan Spike on 
the Annexation of Cuba," and succeeded in arousing 
considerable innocent mirth, without ever bringing 
a blush to the cheek of clerical modesty. 

Later on I discovered that I had fallen for one of 
Mr. Hovey's little pleasantries, and that his alleged 
ministerial guest was none other than John C. Wyman, 
one of Boston's most brilliant raconteurs, while I had 
been palmed off on him as an earnest agnostic, totally 
deficient in a sense of humor! 

It took years to mutually straighten out this comedy 
of errors, and then we had many a good laugh over it, 
but not such a hearty one as Mr. Hovey enjoyed all 
along. Over the teacups today I cherish this "en- 
counter of wits" as a happy remembrance of Mr. 
Hovey. 

Mr. Hovey passing me off as an agnostic brings to 
mind a little story in which Col. Robert Ingersoll, 
the famous agnostic — and he was a dear old friend of 
mine, too — plays the leading role. Both of us happened 
to be in Detroit. I called upon him, and when he 
asked after the condition of my health, I told him I 
was very well, but that I was considerably annoyed 
with chronic acidity of the stomach. "Why," said he, 
"don't you carry Dr. Squibbs' soda with you?" I 



110 REMINISCENCES OF 

replied, "No, I never heard of it." "Why," said he, 
"it is a most wonderful remedy and gives immediate 
relief. I am never without it." I ventured to ask 
him if his confidence was well founded. With that 
twinkle of his eyes which was the advance agent of his 
thought he replied, "Mr. Barnabee, I have that confi- 
dence in Dr. Squibbs' soda that I should hesitate to 
sprinkle any of it on an enemy's grave." 

I immediately invested in Dr. Squibbs' soda and have 
used it ever since. 

Speaking about Yankee character impersonations 
and quaint types in real life, I passed my working days 
in the place where they most did congregate — Hovey's 
big store. To render a true description of all these 
would require a book, accompanied by a photograph 
album. Two or three individuals, however, rise so 
obstreperously in my memory that I must put them on 
brief record in order to forget them. 

There was a woman afflicted with sleeping lethargy, 
who would walk in, take a seat, look at the goods and 
doubtless make up her mind what she wanted, but 
wbuld say nothing. Then she would drop off into a 
peaceful slumber, only to awaken with a start half an 
hour later, after the goods had been cleared away and 
nothing was left on the counter, and call out sharply, 

"Well, give me seven yards of that!" 

Another suffered from periodical attacks of facial 
earthquake, which would come on without the slightest 
warning. She would ask a question, look the hapless 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 111 

clerk straight in the eye, and then suddenly her counte- 
nance would throw a series of convulsions — unhinging 
her jaws, changing her mouth, twisting her nose askew, 
throwing the entire face out of plumb, and making the 
two eyes look in opposing directions— until the sales- 
man, especially if it was his first encounter of the 
kind, would have to precipitately duck under the 
counter to make his own features behave. 

Once at a fashionable funeral, when I was officiating 
as a ten-dollar mourner, with requiem-singing duties 
weighing me down, I suddenly encountered this person 
with the landslide physiognomy. A solemn hush 
pervaded the room as she walked in, took a compre- 
hensive view of the assemblage, and passed down to 
the left to view the remains, throwing that awful face 
as she did so. For the living spectators, it was an ordeal. 

That reminds me! a pastor (I'm not at liberty to 
give his name) who had been in the habit of using the 
same formula at all funerals, "Friends will now view 
the remains," was asked if he could not, occasionally, 
change the wording slightly and make it seem less 
formal, replied "Oh, yes! certainly!" At the very next 
funeral, when it came time for the procession to move, 
he leaned over the pulpit and, in words capable of double 
meaning, to the utter astonishment of the assemblage, 
he said in sonorous tones — "Friends will now pass the 
bier." 

Perhaps the funniest character of all at Hovey's was 
the floorwalker, or "shop-walker," as we called him. 



112 REMINISCENCES OF 

This gentleman resembled "Old Uncle Ned" in the 
Boston ese version of the song in that — 

"He had no hirsute adornment on the summit of his cranium, 
In the locality where the capillary fleece ought to vegetate." 

To remedy this deficiency of nature and time, he 
allowed his locks to grow very long on one side, parted 
them just over the ear, and pasted them over his un- 
covered dome as a sort of stringy thatch. This arrange- 
ment worked all right, so long as there was "nothing 
doing," and he could remain in statuesque quiet, but 
when he got busy and rushed about, those wisps of 
hair would rise up, with the ends swaying and teetering 
in the air. Oh, he was a sight! Years after, when cast 
for the character of Don Bolero in "Girofle-Girofla," 
I bethought me to have a wig constructed on this pat- 
tern, and had no end of fun with it, though some 
folks who had never visited Hovey's thought it an 
outrageous and impossible travesty. 

At the time when I was doubling as a clerk in the 
dry goods store and general utility at the M. L. A., I 
also branched out from my church-choir singing and 
took part in various concerts. I would be "Rock'd 
in the Cradle of the Deep" at Roxbury one week and 
be "Simon, the Cellarer" at a sacred function in 
Scituate the next. 

It was in a church "scituated" at North Scituate 
that I practically made my debut as a professional 
concert singer for revenue only. A long, jolting 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 113 

journey by stage coach transported me to the cold, 
barren and rock-ribbed shore. 

My vocal pipes were just then beginning to respond 
improvingly to the artistic plumbing of my master, 
Wetherbee. This being the first time a financial 
reward had beckoned me on, I felt more than the 
usual shakiness of the knee-joints, which ever, before 
and since, has manifested itself in making my bows to 
the public. 

But the fates were propitious as ever, and "Here 
Upon My Vessel's Deck" I stood sturdily and weath- 
ered the storm of applause. I sailed into the harbor of 
Scituate's kind regards with a deep, double D-flat, 
and being once assured of my share of the prize-money 
I felt that "calm and peaceful would be my sleep," 
and that I was, without doubt, extremely "safe in that 
ocean wave." 

Fortunately that audience was a torrid one — not 
like the frigid assemblage which greeted us "choir 
aeolians" at another similar affair, about that time 
when the unresponsive gloom was so thick that I, as 
managing director, felt impelled to go out on the 
platform and make the following grave announcement 
to the petrified assemblage: 

"Fellow-mourners: the corpse didn't arrive with us, 
but it will be along later, so we may as well proceed 
with the funeral services." 

Whether or not the audience appreciated the joke 
I do not remember, but the "artists" certainly did. 



114 REMINISCENCES OF 

Yes, the North Scituate music lovers were genial, 
but their climate was positively polar. In the country 
hotel where we put up, fires were never lighted above 
the ground floor. We had to have the outfit of an 
Arctic expedition in the way of bedclothes — and even 
then we nearly froze to death. 

In the middle of the night the tenor and myself got 
up, lighted a candle and went prowling about the 
vacant chambers, in the hope of finding something 
more that could be utilized as covering. Nothing re- 
warded our search, except a discarded hoopskirt. My 
companion kicked it aside in disgust. But I gathered 
it in, saying, "I'm going to put it on the bed anyway — 
it may tangle up the cold some." 

Our company was called at 6 a.m., but I balked, 
and had a violent altercation with the night watchman 
as to the impropriety of a freeze-out at such an un- 
earthly hour. That fellow was a humorist, it seems, 
though I didn't appreciate that fact at the time. 

"Wall, ef you want breakfast," he said nonchalantly, 
"you'd better get up, fer we've got to hev them sheets 
for tablecloths." 

The man went downstairs and I overheard some- 
one asking if Barnabee was awake yet. 

"His head is," replied the gentle clam-digger, "but 
I can't say about them long legs of his'n." 

However, those were only preliminary experiences, 
to prepare and harden me for "going on the road" later 
in my professional career. For the time being I was 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 115 

buoyant and hopeful, with the thrill of a first substan- 
tial success circulating merrily through the gates and 
alleys of my corporeal frame. 

Fortified with the dawning conviction that from 
henceforth I was going to be some sort of a "potent 
factor" in musico-artistic affairs, and with the American 
eagle in the form of a well-earned "tenner" screaming 
in my trousers pocket, I could afford to be impervious 
alike to summer's heat and winter's cold. I would not 
have given up five cents of my first concert money for 
an electric fan or for a fur-collared overcoat with a 
rubber hot-water lining. 

Tersely expressed, I was stage struck, and it hit me 
hard. The hallucination, or obsession, or whatever 
it was, resulted in the formation of a "dramatic club," 
the organization to include budding players of both 
sexes, and to be dedicated to the altruistic purpose of 
presenting Shakespearean drama lor Art's sake only, 
untainted by any suspicion of commercialism or thought 
of sordid gain, yet in a style calculated to make really- 
and-truly actors hide their diminished heads. 

Needless to say, I was in on the ground floor of this 
scheme. Probably I fell into it accidentally, for I 
was not pushed, as yet, by any inside information 
telling me that Booth, Forrest and myself were three 
of a kind so far as the show business was concerned. 

We started in modestly with "The Merchant of 
Venice." Our Rialto was a private residence, at No. 9 
Allston Street. Owing to some oversight, possibly, 



116 REMINISCENCES OF 

I was not cast as Shylock, but lent my illumination 
to the comparatively minor role of Gratiano. 

I do not wish to flatter myself, but I think that that 
amateur Portia of the occasion felt she was doing the 
right thing when I exclaimed: 

"A Daniel come to judgment! 
Oh, wise young judge, how do I honor thee!" 

Nerissa was "the t'other Miss Greene" — there being 
two young ladies of that name in our company. Though 
she saucily averred that "Gratiano spoke a deal of 
nothing," she must have felt some palpitation of the 
heart when he declared, with somewhat more ardor 
than was really necessary: 

"My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours, 
You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid, 
You loved, I loved" — 

And t'other Miss Greene's fiance in the audience 
looked on with jealous eye and wondered if I really 
meant it. 

We next "did" "Othello," a tragedy by the same 
author who had written our previously mentioned 
comedy success. This change of bill was made despite 
the warning of a local newspaper critic, who wrote, 
regarding our private theatricals: "Many of the per- 
formances have been excellent, and failures almost 
invariably may be attributed to having selected a 
tragedy instead of some light comedy or farce." 

This time I found my proper artistic level, being cast 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



117 



for Othello myself. From Gratiano to the Moor was a 
broad high jump, but I took it without a quiver. I 
was the vaulting youth who laughed at obstacles and 
felt as though I could scale any height, and in the 
grand and sounding phrases of Desdemona's lover 
I calculated that my "correct and easy elocution" — 
as the newspapers sometimes phrased it, when we 
put in a paid ad — would get a chance. 

To this day I rather think I can declaim Othello's 
address to the Senate, and give the account of his 
"whole course of love," in a manner warranted to make 
any girl "wish that Heaven had made her such a 
man." 

In the denunciation of Desdemona for having lost 
the fatal handkerchief I was very terrible, bellowing 
in hoarse, stentorian tones, unheeding her protestations 
of innocence: "The handkerchief! the handkerchief!" 
with such damnable iteration that the unsophisticated 
playgoer from Dedham murmured in loud sotto voice: 

"Oh, thunder! blow your nose without it, and go 
on with the play." 

At all events, my "Mr. Moore of Venus" — as our 
own Mrs. Malaprop had it marked down in her album 
— created such a ripple that the manager of a real 
theater in the suburbs of Boston made me "overtures," 
and I might even say full scores, to repeat my unique 
performance at his house. Providence, in the guise 
of what passed for my extreme modesty, stepped in 
and vetoed this proposition. So it came about that, 



118 REMINISCENCES OF 

instead of disputing the crown of tragedy with the two 
mighty Edwins — Forrest and Booth — I was diverted 
into comic rivalry with Warren and Jefferson. 



Chapter X 



WAITING AT THE CHURCH 

SINGING IN THE UNITARIAN CHURCH. A GIFT GOD.— 

I HEAR WEDDING BELLS AND BUY THE RING. — FAITH- 
FUL UNTO DEATH. — A FRAGRANT MEMORY. 

"Here's to the woman who has a smile for every joy, a tear for every sorrow, 
a consolation for every grief, an excuse for every fault, a prayer for every mis- 
fortune, an encouragement for every hope." — Sainte Foix. 

IN mentioning "Jamaica Plain," it has often been 
found necessary, owing to the coincidence of 
a brand of rum, to explain that the above name 
indicates a locality on the map, and in no way relates 
to an alcoholic stimulant or the habit of taking it un- 
mixed. But the inhabitants of Jamaica Plain deserve 
credit for their hospitality, if not for their conviviality 
— as I can testify from the recollection of many a good 
dinner there. 

After my graduation from "Ordway's Aeolians," 
I bound myself out to service in the quartette of the 
Unitarian Church at Jamaica Plain, a Boston suburb. 
I became a favorite singer at this church, discounting 
any of the reigning bassos by half a foot, in the opinion 
of that vestry and congregation, and getting solid with 
them to such an extent that even the operatic sub- 
terranean voices of the period were regarded as scarcely 
more than my echoes. 

119 



120 REMINISCENCES OF 

At all the festivities of the parish I was a welcome 
(unpaid) guest. I even put on white whiskers and 
played Santa Claus at the Christmas festival, making 
my entrance in real Santa Claus fashion. 

Yes, that was a great "hit" I made in 1860 as Santa 
Claus. I was a tall fellow, and somehow the minister 
picked me out of all that big congregation of good men 
to be the understudy in case the gift god failed to 
appear. Of course I was flattered and frightened, but 
I began to study my part. "Mrs. Partington" — B. P. 
Shillaber — wrote me a beautiful little address, and 
my folks helped me to secure the Santa garb. There 
Were about seven hundred children in the Sunday- 
school, and all the old folks who could squeeze into the 
building came to the festival. 

I remember that a small boy with cheeks like red 
apples and a little suit of clothes that fitted him like 
the bag on a well-done plum pudding had been selected 
to recite: 

"'Twas the night before Christmas 
And all through the house 
Not a creature was stirring — 
Not even a mouse." 

When he came to the line about "the clatter on the 
roof," I sprung a watchman's rattle, bounced in through 
the window and took the whole festival by surprise. 
The young reader didn't finish his carol. The apple 
tints left his fat cheeks, his little fingers stood apart 
like icicles, his mouth opened and he got as white as 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 121 

the beard I was wearing. When I began to say funny 
things and inquire about the naughty boys who went 
fishing on Sunday, and the little girls who habitually 
forgot their verses, astonishment gave way to the most 
exquisite delight. Merriment was not the word, the 
little ones were entranced. 

Before "delivering the goods," I delivered the wel- 
come address, one of the sweetest things Shillaber 
ever wrote. As the lines were written expressly for me 
and were never recited except by me, they ought to 
find a place of welcome in my autobiography, and now 
— if you will give me your kind attention, I shall pro- 
ceed to repeat them. Many years have passed since 
first I committed them to memory, but as long as 
Christmas comes 'round and my physical body is able 
to greet the morn with a voice of gladness, I shall 
continue to repeat them as a message of good cheer, a 
glad tidings — a peace on earth, good will towards men. 
Listen, then, for — 

I greet you, friends — I've on my journey come 
To meet you in your sweet contented home; 
Full well I know that e'en 'mid cold and storm 
I'd find the Christmas fire all bright and warm. 
It does me good to view a scene like this 
Where old and young commingle not amiss, 
For all are children in the generous light 
That flashes round about your way tonight. 
Old boys and young boys all are equal here 
On this great carnival that glads the year. 
Play all your games, let your warm hearts expand, 



122 REMINISCENCES OF 

My gifts I give you with a lavish hand. 
'Tis Christmas time, let no obtrusive jar 
Come in your festive joyousness to mar, 
Give fullest scope to happiness and glee 
And pay your tribute, gentle folks, to me! 

I'm Santa Claus! — a spirit very old — 

Spirit that's aged is the best, I'm told — 

I have no home, but North, South, East and West 

I with the good alone — a brief hour rest, 

I flee along upon the buoyant wind 

Until the right companionship I find, 

Then smile upon them as I greet you here, 

Nor come again until another year. 

No one who harbors me will e'er find cause 

To frown with memory of Santa Claus. 

My back is broken with my work today, 

I've travelled far and on a devious way; 

I've striven hard to shed around delight 

And filled a thousand stockings full tonight. 

I'm tired truly with the task I've done 

And so I'll rest awhile and see your fun. 

Bless you! 'mongst all the people where I've been 

I've never looked upon a brighter scene. 

I'll mingle with you — be old with old folks, 
Young with the boys, and chuckle at their jokes; 
Talk with the matrons, with the maidens chat — 
And take a part in what you all are at. 
Before the morn I'll be in some other clime, 
So now, good people, let us have a time." 

While on the Christmas side track, allow me to state 
that I believe I have been an understudy for dear old 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 123 

Santa Claus every year since my debut in 1860. I 
remember one year when we ("The Bostonians") were 
on the road going from St. Louis to Cincinnati; but 
that didn't make any difference. We kept Christmas 
as it should be kept. 

We had a private car, the men were driven out of the 
smoking room, a tree was brought in, I made up as 
well as I could with feathers and curled hair plucked 
from pillows and mattresses, ravellings of bath towels, 
mucilage and crystal fringe, and we had a jolly time 
with loads of presents, plenty of songs, laughter and 
carols, a few tears and a lot of the true spirit of Christ- 
mas. There were no children on that occasion, but 
after all there is only a sad difference between the 
little ones and those of an older growth. By actual 
count I delivered 787 presents on this memorable occa- 
sion, and after the deed was done, Santa Claus sat 
down and dined with the glorious basso, Myron 
Whitney. 

Another Christmas I cannot forget is one on which 
I was "Santa Claus in bed." In the closing chapters of 
these "immortals" you will be informed how it all came 
about, but sufficient is it to state here that despite 
my awkward position as a bearer of gifts, I did preside 
as an "immovable Santa Claus." Of course I wore 
an imposing make up and tried to recite Mr. Shillaber's 
lines. Unfortunately I could not recall my regular 
Santa speech and was forced to substitute some of my 
own "originals." In addition to the general remarks 



124 REMINISCENCES OF 

to the party, I wrote verses to accompany every gift 
("the gift without the giver is bare," you know), but 
some of the recipients being unknown, my poetical 
efforts would fail to arouse much appreciation. How- 
ever, there was a verse for my dear wife's present and 
one for Tom Karl's that I have not forgotten. 

Attached to the two dolls presented to my wife were 
these lines: 

"Old age and youth, when they flock well together, 
Grow much alike, and become birds of a feather. 
We intend that this pair shall continue to jaunty be 
We give them, in charge, to dearest 'Aunty B.' " 

My friend Tom was given a drum, along with the 
following note : 

"The spirit stirring drum' was spoken of by nearly black 

Othello 
But how a drum could 'stir' doth not appear to this ere 

'stupid fellow.' 
At all events if it can 'stir' a 'spirit' that will cheer 
May it fill your 'spirits' full, Tom, as the 'drum' inside your 

ear." 

Blessed Christmas! It's the best day of the whole 
year. It makes children of us all. I wouldn't give up 
my hold on Christmas for all the fete days of all the 
nations on earth. Children! God bless them, they 
keep me young, and wherever they are you will find 
me every time.* 



* "Mr. Barnabee is passionately fond of children, and in the hotels when 
he is wanted, no one ever goes to the smoking or reading room to look for 
him. He likes nothing better than the society of a small boy, with a bos 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 125 

It just takes fifty years off my age when I get think- 
ing about chimney corners, Christmas stockings, Santa 
Claus and children. And when I read a story about a 
Christmas tree I am glorious, matchless twenty-three. 

Proceeding with our story. Having pried up the 
crust of Boston's exclusive musical set, I became 
persona grata at some of its high functions, and rapidly 
accumulated prestige. So much so, that presently I 
was adjudged the proper thing for the quartet of the 
new Church of the Unity. 

I had a voice in the dedication of that temple of 
worship which was to come into national fame through 
the ministrations of such divines as the Rev. Dr. Geo. 
Hepworth and the Rev. Dr. Minot J. Savage. The first 
solo ever sung within those walls was mine — a perform- 
ance which two days' anticipated "stage fright," with 
attendant nausea and heart failure, enabled me to 
execute with due feeling. 

With the exception of one year, during which I 
directed the choir at Dr. Putnam's church in Rox- 
bury, my Unitarian connection lasted twenty-three 
years. During that time I contrived to hold my own, 
vocally, with the old standbys as well as the young 
fledglings who emerged, and I formed what in some 
cases turned out to be lifelong friendly and professional 



of building blocks, unless it is two small boys, with a sailboat that needs 
rigging. lie is content to lie on bis back, Gulliver fashion, and let troops of 
children walk on him and ride his pockets. Mrs. Barnabce is devoted to 
him; she calls him her "dear boy" and the gentle comedian suits the term." 

— The late Jessie ISarllctt Davis, 



126 REMINISCENCES OF 

associations with members of that historic Unity 
quartet. Two of these, who afterward adorned larger 
spheres of action, were W. H. Fessenden, who became 
one of the tenors of the "Boston Ideals," also of Mrs. 
Thurber's ill-fated American opera company; and 
Marie Stone, who, after five years' study in Europe, 
and a year as matinee soprano with Emma Abbott, 
joined the Ideals, later the "Bostonians," of which 
organization she was the prima donna par excellence 
for a long term of years. 

Other Unity associate singers were Louise Adams, 
Mrs. Barry, Addie Ryan and William H. Wadleigh, 
with Howard M. Dow, the organist, one of the very 
best, a perfect piano accompanist, my companion, 
guide, philosopher and friend through my concert 
career. At Dr. Putnam's in Roxbury, I first made 
the acquaintance of Sarah W. Barton, Mathilde 
Phillipps and William McDonald. 

The two eminent Unitarian preachers whom I have 
named both went to New York in later years, on the 
same plan, I suppose, as good Americans are said to 
go to Paris when they die. Dr. Hepworth, you will 
remember, was for many years Mr. James Gordon 
Bennett's private chaplain, and the good gray Sunday 
editor of the Herald. Dr. Savage succeeded the Rev. 
Robert Collyer as pastor of the Church of the Messiah. 
Both these clergymen were "stars" in Boston, never 
failing to fill the church and the contribution boxes. 
Listening to their literary sermons, I fancied I learned 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 127 

to distinguish the difference between sound and sense 
—between eloquence and sequence — between whirling 
words and terse logic — between sonorous phrases deliv- 
ered with conscious elocutionary flourish, and sincere 
truth uttered with the effect of conviction. 

But theology was not the main subject of my pre- 
occupation. I became a model vestryman, and at 
church sociables was constantly receiving encourage- 
ment to develop my talents for amusing deadhead 
audiences. Such a reputation did I acquire as a "top- 
liner" at functions of this sort that perhaps it was 
quite natural a morning newspaper should get my 
name mixed up with other happenings, and end up 
its detailed report of a railroad catastrophe with the 
stereotyped phrase: 

"Mr. Barnabee added to the interest of the occasion 
by singing several comic songs." 

Another interest with which I busied myself at this 
period was getting married. My best Portsmouth 
girl, regardless of the efforts of other possibly disap- 
pointed maidens to disparage me by sending comic 
valentines reflecting on my personal appearance, kept 
in mind only my sterling worth of character, so that 
in her estimation I figured proudly as a fit and proper 
man. Correspondence proving eventually inadequate 
to feed the flame, we decided to become "nearer" as 
well as "dearer" to one another. 

My financial condition now seemed to warrant 
the venture, thanks to a raised salary and yearly 



128 REMINISCENCES OF 

"dividend" from the generous Hovey & Co., together 
with my stipendiary emoluments for lifting my voice 
in anthem, hymn and "Te Deum," and an occasional 
boost from a partial and indulgent concert-going 
public. 

So we agreed to take the long journey together. 
It began at Warner, New Hampshire, on the first day 
of December, 1859. As my wife has been my steadfast 
partner in joy and sorrow, in shadow and sunshine, 
in sickness and health, my almost constant companion 
in all travel by land and sea, and over the interminable 
one-night stand routes that intersperse our great and 
glorious country, my wardrobe mistress and dressing- 
maid, and the long-suffering auditor upon whom to 
try all my new parts, I feel sure that all who know 
my temperamental peculiarities will regard this, her 
life-story, as a monument to loving endurance. 

As I write these words on the seventy-eighth anni- 
versary of my birth, remembering what I have been 
"up against" on some occasions, a loser in every 
private scheme for enhancing my worldly fortune, 
taking my dose of the medicine of struggle and disap- 
pointment, a physical sufferer from the days of the 
"castor oil, senna and manna" doctor of the old school 
to this present age of enlightened and skillful (?) surgi- 
cal practice, with constant headaches of all the fifty- 
seven varieties, a mental prey to nervous apprehension 
and melancholia, the "stuffed bosom" filled with "that 
perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart" — as I reflect 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 129 

upon this, and think that I have come out of it all, at 
my age, in firm health, strength and voice, with what 
I claim to be a serene and unruffled temper, with heart- 
felt gratitude for "all the joys I have tasted," with 
forgiveness for all who have done me wrong; and with 
courage for whatever may betide — I cannot but feel that 
she, above all others, made life worth while, and, by 
reason of her fortitude and faith, tempered every wind. 

Mrs. Barnabee passed away on Christmas Day, 1909. A 
chapter might be made of the notable expressions called 
forth by her death from leading journals and men and 
women known to fame. It is impossible to give any fair 
sample of them here, but among the many, the Morning 
Telegraph, of December 30, may serve, perhaps, as a good 
specimen : 

DEATH OF MRS. BARNABEE 

There will be general mourning throughout the theatrical profession 
when this paragraph conveys the news of the death of Mrs. Henry Clay 
Barnabee at her home in Jamaica Plain, Mass., on Christmas Day. 

Mrs. Barnabee was in her seventy-fourth year and had not been in good 
health for many months. A letter from Mr. Barnabee states that she died 
peacefully and painlessly while sitting in her favorite chair by a window. 

On December 1 Mr. and Mrs. Barnabee celebrated the fiftieth anniver- 
sary of their wedding. For thirty years Mrs. Barnabee was prominently 
before the public and was beloved by all that knew her. To her friends she 
always was known as "Aunt Clara." Throughout adversity, as well as 
success, and even at the dissolution of the old Bostonians, never once did 
she lose her kindly, benevolent, cheery smile, and in her passing there is 
lost to the world a fine, gentle, lovable woman. 

At the funeral of Mrs. Barnabee, Tom Karl, Mr. Barna- 
bee's associate for many years, sang the favorite hymns, 
"Lead, kindly Light," and "Abide with Me." The services 
were held in the chapel at Forest Hills, and were conducted 
by Rev. Charles F. Dole. Later the remains were conveyed 
to Portsmouth for interment. 



130 REMINISCENCES OF 

This notice would be incomplete without some fuller 
allusion to her life, and to the marked traits of her character. 

The following obituary lines were prepared by a woman 
now residing in Warner, N. H., the birthplace of Mrs. 
Barnabee. This same writer, it is interesting to note, was 
a very close friend of the late leader of the Christian Science 
cult, Mary Baker Eddy, in her younger days. 

MRS. HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 

Mrs. Henry Clay Barnabee was a native of Warner, born August 17, 
1834, at the Lower village, in the old-tiine mansion, with the Lombardy 
poplars in front, the site of which is now occupied by the modern residence 
of Harlon S. Willis, her step-brother by the marriage of her mother to the 
Rev. Lemuel Willis. Her father was Major Daniel George, of a widely 
known and influential family, who served his country and gained his title 
in the War of 1812. He left an honorable record in Warner, his native town, 
through his long life of usefulness, doing much for the interests of his im- 
mediate neighborhood, by building the hotel and store which helped to 
make the lower village a business center for many years. 

Her mother, his second wife, was Abigail Bean, a rare and attractive 
woman, of great amiability and personal charm, of the numerous and now 
widely scattered family from the Bean homestead on Pumpkin hill, so well 
remembered, as it stood — another of the stately mansions — four-square, 
with the conventional poplars in front, a landmark for all the country 
around, and a center of never-failing hospitality. 

Mrs. Barnabee, a beautiful and charming girl, spent her early years in 
Warner, and after her marriage fifty years ago was a frequent visitor to 
Warner. She identified herself with her husband's interests to a very 
unusual degree. Through all his brilliant career she was literally his help- 
mate; in her quiet way relieving him of little cares, taking upon herself 
responsibility in practical things, so that he should be free to give himself 
wholly to his work. 

Although she had been in failing health for several years, death came 
suddenly. She had enjoyed the Christmas day, with the gifts that had . 
been sent her, watched her husband as he left the house, waved her handker- 
chief until he was out of sight, then settled back in her chair and passed out 
of life. 

She left many relatives on both her father's and mother's side, but of her 
nearest kin, only two nieces, daughters of her only own brother. 

During the past year, it has been niy rare privilege to 
read and examine a number of books containing musical 
programs, souvenir programs, press notices, poetical selec- 
tions and other literary articles which the deceased had 
clipped from various sources and gathered together between 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 131 

permanent bindings for future reference and perusal. It 
is true that the hands that pressed the columns into the 
making of them have been folded in the serene repose of 
death, but the unique work has been delivered to us as an 
index to those mundane things — blessings I should christen 
them — which, though wrapped in silence, appealed to the 
upbuilding of a strong and lovable character. 

I could select nothing better to reprint from the little 
library of priceless gems than that lofty expression which 
Mrs. Barnabee preserved on the fly-leaf of one of her cher- 
ished keepsakes, It is the place of woman in man's sphere: 

"If a man is in grief, who cheers him; in trouble, who consoles him; in 
wrath, who soothes him; in joy, who makes him doubly happy; in pros- 
perity, who rejoices; in disgrace, who backs him against the world, and 
dresses with gentle unguents and warm poultices the rankling wounds made 
by the slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune? Who but woman, if you 
please?" — The Virginians. 

And hasn't she fulfilled all this, not in vain words, but by 
unforgotten deeds in the life of one with whom she shared 
her own during fifty years of married life? 

The love of others was ever her psalm of life; and there 
never was a person who sung that psalm more sweetly, more 
clearly, more tenderly, and to a nobler purpose. Her charity, 
like a perennial spring, flowed forth with a crystal beauty. 

I venture to state that her noble motto was: 

"1 expect to pass through this world but once. Any good thing, there- 
fore, that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any fellow creature, 
let me do it now. Let ine not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this 
way again." 

Yes, this must have been a prime favorite of hers, for on 
perusing her leaves of noble expressions, I find that she 
repeats the declaration time and time again. And I am not 
alone in my belief. A vast company of players who were 
servitors in the sphere of art and amusement when she 
played "mother" to scores of prominent singers and actors, 



132 REMINISCENCES OF 

will testify in this or in the world of revelation, that if this 
was the cross she wore, she not only carried it as a gem for 
all its beauty, but she held it as a standard and conquered 
by it; and that they, too, can count themselves among the 
"stars" who were made brighter by her power of noble 
inspiration. 

Today, after fifty years of vanished sunrises and faded 
sunsets, another pen offers a tribute to the "beauteous 
spirit" of the same Clara George. And that pen, even at 
its best, falls short in its efforts to add a single word to the 
life record of one who has solved life's riddle. She has de- 
parted, it is true, but she has left footprints on the New 
England sands, and bequeathed to her surviving friends 
that which alone can give consolation to the living — the 
memory of the good deeds and virtues of the dead- And 
that memory is the best and purest link forged between this 
world and the better. Long may her precious memory be 
cherished ! — Editor. 



Chapter XI 



FIRST OPERATIC AWAKENINGS 

I HEAR GRAND OPERA. — JENNY LIND, HENRIETTE SON- 
TAG AND OTHERS.— A GALAXY OF STARS AND OPERAS. 
— GOOD OLD HANDEL AND HAYDN. 

Singers: It is theirs to show to true men and women that they can live noble 
and exalted lives in harmony with the divine plan of music. 

QRISI and Mario, the two greatest stars of their 
time, lighted up the operatic firmament in my 
early years in Boston. The emotion of listening 
to them was my first attack of grand opera fever, and 
it was a severe one. How I ever survived it I cannot 
tell, for it was a nightly succession of chills and thrills 
that would discount any known combination of ague, 
fever and malaria. 

The prices, though as nothing compared to their 
present elevation, were highly seasoned for my anemic 
purse. The top gallery, or "amphitheater," was 
about my financial level. It was a long way up, but 
with the landing-stages and my advantageous length of 
limb, I could give a handicap to any aspiring or per- 
spiring youth, and then beat him to the front seat. 

My first opera was Bellini's "I Puritani," the same 
which Impresario Hammerstein has just resurrected, 
half a century later, for the inauguration of his new 

133 



134 REMINISCENCES OF 

Manhattan Opera House. But it can be no such 
revelation today as it was to me back in the fifties. 
The superb ensemble, the awe-inspiring orchestra, 
filled me with fervent enthusiasm. When Badiali and 
Susini, the matchless baritone and equally unrivalled 
basso, "sounded the trumpets" in the grand Liberty 
duet, I wondered how the roof could possibly stay on. 

I am one of those who remember having heard 
Jenny Lind — it was in the vast hall over the Fitchburg 
Depot, and even the locomotives hushed their hulla- 
baloos to listen to the Swedish nightingale's song. 
It seems unfair to crow over music-lovers who, through 
no fault of their own, were born too late to enjoy this 
treat, and must worship latter-day idols. Yet I stub- 
bornly contend that never before or since Jenny Lind 
has there been quite such a lovely example of all that 
was gracious in personality and divinely sympathetic 
in song. 

Henriette Sontag, a supreme exponent of the colora- 
tura art — who might be called the Marcella Sembrich 
of her day — was a still later recollection, as I attended 
her concert in the old Temple at Portsmouth before 
I knew what heroic singing really meant. I admit 
this is a repetition, but she deserves it. 

The first opera night at the Boston Theater, how- 
ever, marked the date when I broke into the unknown, 
enchanted realm of dramatic music, filled with suns, 
moons, planets, stars, falling meteors and flashing 
comets of the divine art. It was a world peopled with 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



135 



wonderfully gifted beings, bearing such magic names 
as La Grange, Fabri, Piccolomini, Kellogg, Formes, 
and Brignoli. They taught me what it is to charm 
and sway the hearts of men, and they had their throngs 
of worshippers quite as numerous and as extravagant 
as our Melbas, Renauds, Plancons and Carusos of 
the present. Many a blissful hour I passed in my 
amphitheater heaven, rapt in the chorded strains that 
rose to my spellbound ears, oblivious to all mere mun- 
dane happenings, persons and ills. 

For the benefit of those who may fancy that ours 
was a benighted musical sphere, I could write in here 
the lists of casts of operas from the earlier days pre- 
pared by my late companion. The procession occupied 
twenty-five years in passing, and is a reminiscence of 
the long ago, whose combination of art, song and 
mise en scene lingers in my memory and brings back 
the light and happiness of other days. The singers 
and their songs have all faded from earthly hearing, 
but in that "undiscovered country" that awaits our 
coming, their voices are joined in the "choir invisible" 
whose music is the gladness of the world. 



ARTISTS AND OPERAS, 1854-1879 
ARTISTS APPEARING 18.H-1800 



Signor Amodio 
Signor Amoldi 
Signor Assoni 
Mme. Avogadro 
Frt'dtrieo Badiali 
Signor Barattina 
Signor T. Barattini 



Signor Barili 
Signor Borrani 
Pasqualino Brignoli 
Signor Ceresa 
Signor Coletti 
Pauline Colson 
Adelaide Oortesi 



Signorina Donovani 
Nantier Didiee 
Amati Dubreuil 
Signor Ferri 
Signor Florenza 
Carl Formes 
Signor Gasparoni 



136 



REMINISCENCES OF 



Madame Gassier 
Signor Gassier 
Marietta Gazzaniga 
Madame Grisi 
William Harrison 
Elsie Hensler 
Mme. Johannsen 
Marcel Junca 
Mme. Laborde 
Anna de La Grange 
Signorina Landi 
Domenico Lorini 
Bertucca-Maretzek 
Signor Mario 
M. Meyer 



Harrison Millard 
Raffaele Mirati 
Signor Morelli 
Madame Morra 
Signor Miiller 
Herr Ochrlein 
Adelina Patti 
Maria Piccolomeni 
Adelaide Phillips 
Mile. Poinsart 
Louisa Pyne 
Susan Pyne 
Mr. Reeves 
Signor Reutler 
Signor Roeco 



Signor Rovere 
Signor Sbriglia 
Balbina Steffenone 
Signor Salviani 
Signora Seidenburg 
Amalia Strakosch 
Signor Susini 
Signor Stigelli 
Signor Stefani 
Signor Taffanelli 
Signor Tamaro 
Mme. Von Berkel 
Felicita Vestvali 
Mr. Whiting 
Joseph Weinlieh 



OPERAS PRESENTED 1 354-1 8C0 



Cinderella 
Crown Diamonds 
Czar and Carpenter 
Der Freischiitz 
Don Giovanni 
Don Pasquale 
Elisire d'Amore 
Ernani 
Fidelio 
Fra Diavolo 
Guy Mannering 



(Alphabetically arranged) 

I Puritani 

II Polinto 

II Trovatore 

La Favorita 

La Sonnambula 

La Traviata 

Linda di Chamouni 

Lucia di Lammermoor 

Lucrezia Borgia 

Maritana 

Masaniello 

Mason and Locksmith 



Montecchi e Capuletti 

Norma 

Rigoletto 

Romeo aud Juliet 

Semiramide 

Stabat Mater 

The Barber of Seville 

The Beggar's Opera 

The Bohemian Girl 

The Martyrs 

William Tell 



ARTISTS OF THE SEASONS 18C0-1870 



Edith Abell 
Signor Antonucci 
J. A. Arnold 
Mons. Aujac 
Ranieri Baragli 
Signor Bellini 
Mons. Benedick 
Caroline Richings 

Bernard 
Pierre Bernard 
Signor Biachi 
Allesandro Boetti 
Mme. Borchard 
Signora Bosisio 
Pauline Canissa 
S. C. Campbell 
Mme. Comte-Bochard 



Mme. Carozzi-Zucchi 
William Castle 
Angelina Cordier 
Isabella Cubas 
Elena D'Angri 
Mons. Deere 
Mile. Duclos 
Mons. Duchesne 
Charles Drew 
Mons. Edgard 
Madame Inez Fabbri 
Signor Ferranti 
Mons. Francis 
Signor Frederici 
Erminia Frezzolini 
Signora Garofli 
Mary Gonzales 



Mons. Guidon 
Theodore Habelmann 
Gustavus F. Hall 
Mons. Hamilton 
Mme. Hamilton 
Laura Harris 
Minnie Hauck 
Joseph Hermanns 
Rose Hersee 
Franz Himmer 
Isabella Hinckley 
Ettore Irfre 
Mile. Irma 
Clara Louise Kellogg 
Mons. LagrifToul 
Mile. Aline Lambele 
Mons. Leduc 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



137 



Signor Lotti 
Signor Maceaferri 
Signor Manni 
Signor Massimiliani 
Francisco Mazzolini 
Isabel McCulloch 
Miss Montmorency 
Heinrich Steinicke 
Henrietta Sulzer 
Natali Testa 
Mile. Tostee 
Jennie Van Zandt 



Mme. Varian 
Laura Waldron 
Senor Ximenes 
Signor Ypolito 
Giorgio Ronconi 
Parepa Rosa 
Signor Rossi 
Signor Rubio 
Johanna Rotter 
Arthur Edward Seguin 
Mrs. Zelda Seguin 
Agatha States 

OPERAS, 1860-1870 



Fannie Stockton 
Signor Nanni 
Carlotta Patti 
Henry Peakes 
James Peakes 
Carmen Poch 
Signor Quinto 
Antoinette Ronconi 
Signora Moreni 
Signorina Morenzi 
Anna Mischka 
Signor Mussiani 



In addition to numerous presentations of some of 
the older operas, this period witnessed the following 
operas for the first time in Boston: 



A Night in Granada 

Barbe Bleue 

Belisario 

Crispino e la Coniare 

Daughter of the 

Regiment 
Dinorah 

Doctor of Alcantara 
Don Juan 
Don Sebastian 
The Black Domino 
The Jewess 



The Marriage of Figaro 

The Masked Ball 

Faust 

II Giuramento 

La Dame Blanche 

La Helle Helene 

La Grande Duchesse 

La Periehole 

L'Africaine 

Le Chanson de Fortuuio 

Lis Xoces de Jeanette 

The Puritan's Daughter 

The Hose of Castile 



The Star of the Korth 

Lischen und FHtzchen 

Martha 

Merry Wives of 

Windsor 
Mons. Choufleuri 
Nabucodnosor 
Orphee aux Enfers 
Hubert le Diable 
Saffo 

Sicilian Vespers 
Stradella 



Charles R. Adams 
Marie Aimee 

Henry Clay Harnabee 
Mons. A. Barre 
Annie Beaumont 
Mary Beebe 
Brookhouse Bowler 
Italo Campanani 
Alice Carle 
William T. Carlton 
Joseph Victor Capoul 
Annie Louise Cary 
Georgia Cayvan 
John II . Chatterson 



ARTISTS, 1870-1879 

Eugene Clarke 
Aynsley Cook 
George A. ('only 
Miss Cuoney 
Clara Duria 
Marie Leon Duval 
Mr. Henri Drayton 
Mrs. Henri Drayton 
W. H. Fessenden 
Wilhelm Formes 
Rossi-Galli 
Adolph Franosch 
Signor A. Frapoli 
Christian Fritsch 



George B. Frothingham 
Ftclka Gerster 
L. G. Gottschalk 
Mine. F. Guidotti 
Mile. Haffner 
Alexander Human 
Mine. Intropidi 
Amalia Jackson 
Josef Jamet 
Gus Kammerlee 
Tom Karl 
Mme. Lablanehe 
Miss Lancaster 
Louise Lichtmay 



138 



REMINISCENCES OF 



Marie Litta 
Pauline Lucca 
James Maas 
Joseph Maas 
Louise Marchetti 
Victor Maurel 
Annis Montague 
Christine Nilsson 
Rachel A. Noah 
Ernesto Orlandini 
Mme. Marie Palmieri 
Eugenie Pappenheim 



George R. Parks 
Clara Perl 
Signorina Persiani 
Mathilde Phillips 
Giuseppe Del Puento 
Bertha Roemer 
Alexander Reichardt 
G. Reina 
Mile. A. Rosetti 
Marie Roze 

Madame E. Rudersdorf 
Marie Sand 



Teresa Carreno Sauret 
Mme. Sinico 
Annie Starbird 
Signor G. Tagliapietra 
Enrico Tamberlik 
Teresa C. Titiens 
Ostava Torriani 
Edward Vierling 
Signor Vizzani 
Geo. Werrenrath 
Myron W. Whitney 
Mathilde Wilde 



OPERAS, 1870-1879 

During the seasons covering this period Bostonians 
had the privilege of hearing the operas : 



Aida 
Carmen 
Fatinitza 
Flying Dutchman 
Girofle-Girofla 
H. M. S. Pinafore 
La Belle Poule 
La Boulangere a des 
Ecus 



La Fille de Madame 

Angat 
La Gazza Ladra 
La Jolie Parfumeuse 
La Vie Parisienne 
Les Dragons de Villars 
Lohengrin 
Mignon 



Oberon 

Rip Van Winkle 

Satanella 

Tannhauser 

The Huguenots 

The Lily of Killarney 

The Magic Flute 

The Water Carrier 



When I joined the Handel and Haydn Society, the 
oldest musical body in Boston, if not in our entire 
country, it seemed to me, from the ripe ages of a con- 
siderable number of its members, that it must have 
been organized about the time "the morning stars 
first sang together." 

Boston in those days was so good that there were 
no Saturday night performances, because that would 
have interfered with baking the beans, practising the 
hymns, and conning Sunday-school lessons for the 
morrow. Indeed, if I remember rightly, the Satur- 
day matinee had its first introduction there on that 
account. 



HENRY 



BARNABEE 



139 



The rehearsals and concerts of our society, being 
sacred affairs, were held on Sunday nights, and usually 
had a good attendance, there being no other place in 
particular for people to go to. 

For years the prestige of the Handel and Haydn 
remained undimmed. Its membership was varied, the 
female contingent being made up largely of ladies of 
uncertain age. On the male side, also, there was only 
a sprinkling of youth, against a background of silver- 
gray heads and stooping shoulders. 

In such a dignified aggregation I was content to take 
my place as an humble chorus singer, on account of 
the opportunity it afforded me to familiarize myself 
with the works of the masters and to hear their finest 
interpreters. At the triennial festivals European soloists 
were imported to render — some of them to rend — the 
masterpieces of sacred music* 

I remember among these Titiens, Rudersdorf, Pap- 
penheim, Parepa-Rosa, Christine Nilsson, Carl Formes, 
Hermanns and Santley, as names to conjure with. 
With these meistersingers from abroad, native talent 



*Up to the year 1818 the programs presented by the Handel and Haydn 
Society were made up of miscellaneous sacred selections, but on December 
25 of that year the "Messiah" was given complete. So far as may be learned 
this was the first performance in America of the oratorio in its entirety. 
Haydn's "Creation" followed in the next year and in 1820 the "Dettingen 
Te Deum" of Handel was performed. According to the custom of the time, 
during the early years of its inception the Handel and Haydn Society in the 
distribution of parts gave the tenor to the women's voices, the air*being 
taken by the men. This state of affairs continued until 1827 when Lowell 
Mason accepted the presidency of the society and brought about the proper 
distribution of parts. At the present time the active members^number 
three hundred and ninety-five. — The American History and Encyclopedia 
of Music. 



140 REMINISCENCES OF 

competed, represented by such notabilities as Weth- 
erbee (my own teacher), Adelaide Phillipps, Winch, 
and our magnificent Whitney, whose singing of the 
great oratorio roles has never been surpassed. 

Reading lately of the completion of an important 
picture by Thomas Ball, the veteran sculptor-painter, 
at the age of eighty plus years, I am reminded that he 
also was one of our leading bass solosits. 

Two performances of this Society which stand out 
from all the rest in delightful recollection were the 
"Messiah," when Christine Nilsson (this was many 
years later than the time of which I have been writing) 
sang the leading soprano role; and the "Elijah," in 
which the majestic basso, Carl Formes, assumed the 
part of the prophet. 

Nilsson in the soprano solos was so ecstatically 
inspired that I have never since wished to hear them 
sung by anyone else. And if there ever was anything 
more sublime than Formes' declamatory delivery of 
"Is not his word like a fire?" and his demand to the 
priests of Baal to "call him louder," it does not come 
within the scope of my recollection. 

Essentially Bostonese are two incidents connected 
with the history of the Hub's chief musical rendezvous, 
which may appropriately wind up this Handel and 
Haydn chapter. 

When the great organ — at that time the third largest 
in the world — was first placed in Music Hall, it was 
naturally a paramount attraction. To go and hear it 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 141 

became a solemn duty which no New England con- 
science could leave unfulfilled. Every Saturday Bos- 
ton's beauty, intellect and musical culture flocked 
thither, at twenty-five cents per, to bathe in its rolling 
flood of harmonies. 

After a time, however, the curiosity and yearning 
were appeased, the attendance dropped off and finally 
the function degenerated into a gathering at which 
gossip and domestic discussions were not out of order. 
On these occasions it took all the power of the loud 
pedals and cavernous pipes to drown the clatter of 
tongues that "needed no reviving Sabbath." One 
day, when the "Johnny Morgan, who played the 
organ" was thundering away as if bent on shaking 
the foundations of the Bunker Hill Monument, the 
competing noise of feminine conversation was equally 
at its height. Suddenly the organist planted his foot 
on a soft pedal that instantly hushed the mighty roar 
to an aeolian whisper, and in the impressive stillness 
a woman's voice, which couldn't be so quickly shut off, 
was heard shrieking into her neighbor's ears: 

"We fry ours in butter!" 

It will be remembered that at the close of the "Mes- 
siah" — the oratorio on which I was weaned and brought 
up — there is a fugue on "Unto us a child is born, unto 
us a Son is given," ending with the magnificent choral 
"And His name shall be called Wonderful, Wonderful, 
the only mighty God, the Prince of Peace." 

A countryman came down from Vermont with his 



142 REMINISCENCES OF 

wife to see the "Boston sights," and of course his 
friends wound up the tour of observation with a visit 
to the Sunday night performance at the sacred Music 
Hall. The farmer sat through it all in sphinx-like 
gravity, and said nothing. But when he reached home, 
and the other members of the family gathered round 
the hearthstone to list to the narrative of our hero's 
adventures in the city, Mr. Hayback hurried over the 
hairbreadth 'scapes, dangers and temptations he had 
passed, and then launched forth as follows: 

"Wal, b'gosh, that 'ere Messiah show ain't no place 
for Samanth an' the gals, I kin just tell ye. You 
knowed what they done there? Why, I tell ye, after 
they'd been singing out o' the Bible, reverent-like, for 
about forty-five minutes, the first thing I knowed 
some two hundred old maids, I reckon, jumped up and 
yelled out, 'Unto us a child is born!' and with that a 
lot of old fellows who seemed to be jest a- waiting their 
chance to chuck in a word edgeways, hollered back 
'Wonderful! Wonderful!' Wal, by jings! I reckoned 
then 'twas 'bout time for me to go, an' I lit right out." 



Chapter XII 



HARKING BACK TO THE BOSTON THEATER 

I BECOME A GALLERY GOD. — REVIEWING THE SILENT 

PROCESSION. EDWIN FORREST'S EXECUTION. — DRUM 

AND FIFE DAYS. BARNABEE, THE SOLDIER. 

"I am a strong believer in the dramatic stage as a test of professional ability. — 
Henry Clay Barnabee. 

IN the fall of the year 1854, when my rush light 
dimly appeared on the Boston horizon, the big 
blaze of that imposing temple of the drama, the 
new Boston Theater, burst upon the gaze of an expec- 
tant public. Having tasted dramatic blood on the 
occasion of my first visit to the city, recounted in one 
of the preceding chapters, I was one of the expectant. 
The event did not disappoint. The inaugural play, 
"The Rivals," showed off to excellent advantage, being 
presented by a strong stock company, including Mr. 
and Mrs. John Wood, Mr. and Mrs. John Gilbert, 
James and Julia Bennett, George Pauncefort, H. F. 
Daly and Mrs. Hudson Kirby. 

As my social and professional engagements at that 
time were not so numerous as they afterward became, 
I had a good many "nights off." These I divided 
impartially between the Boston Theater, just men- 
tioned, and the Museum, where the only William 

143 



144 REMINISCENCES OF 

Warren played. Thus, at a tender age, I developed 
into a sort of ubiquitous Olympian, or gallery god. 

Under the able management of Thomas Barry, the 
Boston Stock Company gave revivals of the Shakes- 
pearian and other standard dramas which, for all-round 
excellence, is not, and could hardly be, surpassed with 
all the stage resources of today. 

Miss Bennett and Mrs. Wood were both women of 
vivacity and charm and accomplished actresses in their 
respective lines. There was open rivalry between them, 
and on their benefit nights the stall bean-eaters and 
Harvard College Indians clashed at the box-office, 
each faction "whooping it up" for their favorite.* 

Needless to state, I was in the thickest of the fray. 
And, just think of it ! Fifty cents paid for a seat in the 
best part of the house. The outlay of a dollar and forty 
cents, then, meant two theater tickets, two oyster 
stews, peanuts or peppermints at choice, and 'bus fare. 

The difference in prices between fifty years ago and 
now reminds me of the remark of a justice of the 
United States Supreme Court, when the colored guide, 
showing him the Natural Bridge of Virginia from the 
ravine underneath, said: 

"Gen'l George Washington, standin' on dis spot, 

* Eugene Tompkins in his "History of the Boston Theater" tells us that 
it was during a performance of "Medea," April, 1877, that Theodore Roose- 
velt, afterward President of the United States, was ejected from the gallery 
for creating a disturbance. He was then a freshman at Harvard College 
and was "running" for one of the secret societies. He had been ordered to 
go into the upper gallery of the Boston Theater in evening dress and ap- 
plaud vociferously in all quiet scenes. This he did faithfully, with the above 
disastrous effect upon his dignity. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 145 

could throw a silver dollah clean to de top of de 
bridge." 

"Very likely," commented the visitor, "for in those 
days a silver dollar went twice as far as it does now." 

What a noble procession of players passes before 
me in memory's phantasmal review! With the excep- 
tion of Rachel, as Phedre, of whom I had but a mo- 
mentary glimpse, I remember them all vividly. 

There was Forrest, of the Herculean physique and 
deep-toned voice, equally awe-inspiring whether as 
Richelieu launching the curse of Rome, or as Othello 
damning the perfidious Iago. There was E. L. Daven- 
port, elegant and refined, with clear-cut diction and 
easy versatility, perfect alike in expressing the pathetic 
terror of Richard III while muttering, "The ghosts 
of undone widows sit upon my arm," and the jollity 
and tenderness of William the Sailor in "Black-eyed 
Susan." There was the stately Charlotte Cushman, 
a baleful Lady Macbeth, a weirdly fascinating Meg 
Merrilies, and all-moving gentleness as Mrs. Haller. 

There was Hackett, the classic comedian beloved of 
Abraham Lincoln, a Falstaff for whom Shakespeare 
might have written the part, and then commended 
its interpreter for adding undreamt-of unction to it. 
There was the illustrious Italian, Ristori, as Marie 
Antoinette appealing to the mob from the palace 
balcony at Versailles, or as Mary Tudor stretching out 
claw-like, ensanguined hands for England's royal 
crown. There was Joe Jefferson (and his name will 



146 REMINISCENCES OF 

never die) — then in the first flush of his imaginative 
creation of a poetic Rip Van Winkle. 

And still they come! Charles Mathews, "cool as 
a cucumber," and as Sheridan's "critic" unique and 
inimitable; Jean Davenport, Anna Cora Mo watt, 
ancient of days, but who sitteth throned in glory; 
Murdoch, the scholarly; Maggie Mitchell, eerie in 
her flashing images of Fanchon and Jane Eyre; John 
T. Raymond, whose Colonel Mulberry Sellers — "There's 
millions in it!" — is the subject of "imitations" today 
by actors who never saw him; blithe Barney Williams, 
and "Billy" Florence, with the richest of Irish brogues, 
as Cap'n Cuttle, whose iron hook was more deft 
than other men's five fingers; Owens, whose genius 
in the incarnation of Caleb Plummer made him the 
peer of Charles Dickens, yet who did not disdain to 
make Solon Shingle and his "bar'l of apple sass" 
famous; the incomparable and unapproachable "Mar- 
chioness" Lotta, the original dramatic cocktail; Mary 
Anderson, marble, statuesque and cold, but of com- 
pelling voice and Grecian beauty of features; Sothern, 
who made a high-art etching of Dundreary; Charles 
Fechter, the romantic beau ideal; Salvini of the 
Jovian presence and voice; and last named but most 
revered, Edwin Booth, whose greatness enlarges as it 
recedes — America's perfect actor, the most princely 
Hamlet that ever trod the stage. 

But these crowding recollections have brought me 
far beyond my chronological bounds, for the time 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



147 



being. I must hark back to the Edwin Forrest period, 
and give the following ben' trovato anecdote apropos 
of his Niagara voice: 

Forrest was playing his celebrated "Injun" tragedy, 
"Metamora," in the last scene of which he has been 
hunted to earth by the white man, and Captain 
Church, with a squad of armed men, enters on a bridge 
above and demands the savage chieftain's surrender. 
In thunder tones he answers, "I would not turn upon 
my heel to save my life." 

This should have been Captain Church's cue to 
shout the word "Fire!" whereupon Metamora would 
have proceeded with his effective business of dying all 
over the stage. But the Captain Church on this occa- 
sion couldn't hear, so he stood impassive and let the 
big Indian live on. Metamora again roared: "I would 
not turn upon my heel to save my life." Still nothing 
doin'. But at this critical moment the prompter, with 
almost human intelligence, yelled "Fire!" The muskets 
were discharged and Metamora at last went on with 
his agonizing death struggle. After the curtain fell, 
Captain Church did hear Forrest mounting to his 
dressing room with a ponderous tread that boded ill. 

"Why didn't you fire when I gave you the cue?" 
rumbled the mighty one. 

"I didn't hear you, sir," replied the culprit with 
chattering teeth. 

"Didn't hear me! didn't hear me, eh? Well, don't 
you ever die — you won't hear the last trump!" 



148 REMINISCENCES OF 

It was William W. Clapp, Jr., who once wrote of 
Forrest, "There is one who stands out prominent as 
the great American star, who is to this country what 
Talma is to France— what Garrick is to England — the 
noblest representative of his nation's drama — aye, 
we may say, more the creator of our national drama — 
for Edwin Forrest has done more, individually, than 
all the theaters in the country combined to draw forth 
and reward the talents of native dramatists." 

Mr. Forrest, as early as 1829, made his first attempt 
to encourage native talent by offering a prize of $500 
for the best written tragedy founded on American 
history. The successful competitor was J. A. Stone, 
Esq., who produced "Metamora," which was first 
performed in New York, December 15, 1829. 

The great Forrest waiting for the discharge of the 
"deadly" muskets reminds me. Had not the doctors 
detailed to examine recruits for enlistment pronounced 
me unfit for military duty, these reminiscences might 
never have been penned, or else they would have 
consisted mainly of an account of the "battles, sieges, 
dangers I had passed," and of my personal bravery — 
accent on the bravery. I thought the defect was not 
literally, but slangily "all in my eye," as accurate 
diagnosis since has never been able to locate a mote 
or a beam in either optic. But as the authorities 
decided otherwise, I was compelled to forego the 
tramp, tramp, tramp behind the spirit-stirring drum, 
sacrifice all mv wife's relatives in the dread arbitrament 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 149 

of war, and settle down to humdrum civil duties and 
payment of taxes, which latter were even more certain 
at that time than death. One could never say "Are 
we so soon forgot?" 

But I found ready employment for my talents and 
patriotism in benefits galore for the Sanitary Commis- 
sion, and later for the returning soldiers, wounded, 
weary and worn. 

Professionally I turned this to some account for 
myself. In my connection with a local theatrical com- 
pany at Roxbury, I found opportunity to enlarge 
my repertoire of character parts, as well as of descrip- 
tive songs. Of the latter, I was about the only public 
exponent in this country, forty-five years ago. "Alonzo 
the Brave," "Bluebeard," and "The Watkins' Evening 
Party" are among the facetious musical classics which 
I helped to bring into enduring popularity. 

To vary the monotony of stay-at-home life, and to 
get a little taste of the real article in soldiering, I 
joined an emergency rifle corps. 

We had several days of city camp experience, occu- 
pying the same quarters as the Forty-fourth Massa- 
chusetts, a nine-months regiment. When the Forty- 
fourth went to the front, it was styled the "seed cake 
regiment" by the veterans, on account of being bounti- 
fully supplied with goodies from home and its spick 
and span soldier suits made by Boston tailors. 

So great was the jealousy of the three years' men 
in the North Carolina department, that when the 



150 REMINISCENCES OF 

regiment formed the largest factor of some 2,600 men 
besieged in Little Washington, North Carolina, by a 
whole division of Lee's veterans, some one started the 
scandalous story that in summoning General Foster 
to surrender or face a bombardment, he advised him 
to "remove the women and children and the Forty- 
fourth Massachusetts." 

Of course there was no truth in the story, for the 
Forty-fourth had had its "baptism of fire" the winter 
before, losing men and doing its whole duty, as, indeed, 
was recognized by the high commendations of Gen. 
John G. Foster for their behavior during the siege. 

We were left sole occupants of the Boston camp, 
and every day went through the farce of routine drill. 
To us it was, indeed, a time that tried men's "soles." 
Our drill-master had an original way of interpolating 
remarks to the cadence of the step — such as: 

"Left! Left! Left! now — you've — got — it — keep it. 
Left! Left! Left! Why— in— hell— don't— you— hold 
your — heads — up? Left! Left! Left!" etc. 

Another hero and myself were put in charge of the 
cooking tent for a day. The ration was boiled rice, 
and as we did not know the swell character of that 
cereal, we filled the big camp kettle three quarters 
full with it, then soused on the water. In half an hour 
after we started the fire, there was no room for us in 
the tent — and we had cold rice three times a day 
during the rest of the campaign. 

Everybody was "skeery" in those days. We were 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 151 

ordered out one night to repel an attack supposed to 
come from the direction of Cambridge. Whoever the 
enemy was — whether Confederates, copperheads, or 
Harvard students — we never knew. Perhaps it was a 
false alarm, to test our readiness for actual conflict. 
At all events we started out "armed and equipped 
as the law directs," and stood 

"on the bridge at midnight 
As the clocks were striking the hour" 

and waited — waited until the witching hour of 4 a.m., 
without meeting anything more formidable than a milk 
wagon, a load of market produce, and a string of shoats. 
After it was all over, an officer bethought him to ex- 
amine our rifles. It was found that many of us, in 
nervous haste, had loaded up five or six times, so that 
if the guns had ever gone off, there would have been 
great slaughter — at the wrong end. 

That episode ended my connection with the army, 
but it so chanced that many of the felicitations and 
emoluments which constitute the just reward of 
bravery came my way. A sprained ankle obliged me 
to walk with crutches for several weeks, and whenever 
I appeared in the streets I was taken for a wounded 
veteran, and, despite my protestations, was over- 
whelmed with all sorts of attentions, from carfare to 
a dinner at some fashionable restaurant. After a while 
this palled upon me, and I kept myself screened from 
the public gaze, except on special occasions. 

One of these sorties I made on the Fourth of July, 



152 REMINISCENCES OF 

1863 — the culminating daj^ of the battle of Gettysburg, 
when the fate of the Union hung trembling in the bal- 
ance. I can never forget the experience. Everybody 
was out in the streets, but the stillness of a church 
pervaded the entire population. People walked about 
with anxious faces, but seldom spoke. Friends greeted 
each other with a shake of the hand and a look that 
spoke volumes. All felt intuitively that the decisive 
clash had come, and that the outcome must be either 
a further invasion north by Lee's army, or its rout and 
retreat. 

When that glorious dispatch came from President 
Lincoln, announcing the repulse of Pickett's division, 
the breathless anxiety and gloom were dispelled as 
if by magic. Mighty cheers rent the air, the national 
colors bloomed and blossomed, and joy and gladness 
filled all hearts. 

The rest of the afternoon and evening, for the 
general public, was given up to revelry and pande- 
monium. But in thoughtful homes, quiet though 
fervent thankfulness was expressed that the clouds 
had broken at last, that the beginning of the cruel 
war's end was in sight, and that Webster's patriotic 
aspiration, "Liberty and Union, now and forever, one 
and inseparable," was to be fulfilled, never again to be 
threatened by internal dissension or foreign foes. 



Chapter XIII 



AWAKENING OF CRITICAL APPRECIATIONS 

THE PNEUMO-GASTRIC NERVE. — "FAME." — A WORD TO 
YOUNG ACTORS. — INTRODUCING ANNIE LOUISE CARY 
TO THE PUBLIC. — TRIBUTES FROM NEAR AND FAR. — 
EFFECT OF NEWSPAPER CRITICISM ON ONE'S FUTURE. 

"Whatever may be the temporary applause of men, or the expressions of 
public opinion, it may be asserted without fear of contradiction that no true and 
permanent fame can be founded except in labors which promise the happiness 
of mankind." — Charles Sumner. 

A FTER the cruel war was over, and I had been 
£^^ emancipated from the slavery of crutches, the 
enemy in my midst began to get in his deadly 
work. The strain I had been under, and my double 
life of concert-singing and counter-jumping, roused 
up what my friend 'Gene Field called 

"The author of my thousand woes, 
The pneumo-gastric nerve." 

I also came in for a spell of that mental torture 
known as nervous prostration. Dread of a sanatorium 
was one of the cheerful little concomitants of my 
condition. Indeed, I might have been the actor who 
consulted a nerve specialist, and was ordered to go to 
the theater and see a certain funny comedian. "Doctor, 
that's me!" replied the unfortunate patient; "I am 

15S 



154 REMINISCENCES OF 

the comedian to whom you so kindly refer." "Then," 
the doctor declared, shaking his head, "there is no 
help for you." 

Even my religious bulwarks were battered down. 
I spent days looking up theological authorities, in 
search of material for doubt, and I found plenty of it. 
Dread of a lingering disease, preliminary to moving 
away to a mansion in the skies before my allotted time 
should expire, was constantly with me then — and 
oftentimes since. 

Strictly speaking, these apprehensions have been close 
companions of mine through all the years of my public 
life, and I have scarcely ever known of their taking a 
vacation — nearly always being on hand for a scare. 

These apprehensions again demonstrated the acci- 
dental character of my publicity, for I was told by 
the doctor that I must abandon at once my daily life 
of confinement, and keep out of doors. I was nothing 
loath to act upon this advice; the more so as I had 
achieved something like the position so aptly described 
by the Rev. Dr. Chapin in his well-remembered mot: 

"What do you understand by fame, doctor?" he was 
asked, after his assured success on the lecture platform. 

"Fame," replied the eloquent divine, "means Fifty 
and my Expenses."* 



* Tribute to Dr. Chapin. — "With a magnetic power rarely bestowed 
upon a mortal, with a richness of vocabulary and of imagery that made 
manner the equivalent of matter, and with a voice attuned to the awakening 
of divine echoes in the human soul, Chapin was that man without a peer." 
— Christian Herald. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 155 

So I immediately started out for this goal, in order 
that I might combine business with the process of 
absorbing into my system copious draughts of a fresh 
and eager air, mainly in the form of the old reliable 
east wind. 

My formal debut as a professional on the public 
concert stage took place in 1865 at the Music Hall 
in Boston, on which (to me) memorable occasion 
Annie Louise Cary, Mrs. H. M. Smith, Sarah W. 
Barton, and other artistes brevetted for future fame, 
also participated. 

Meanwhile, there was a brisk and growing demand 
for my services, "from the center all 'round to the sea," 
as the back districts were heard from, having heard 
me, or of me. Being able to sing a serious song as well 
as a comic one, take part in a duo, trio or quartet, 
speak a piece, and tell a storj-, I was considered, even 
at the advanced price, the cheapest and most economi- 
cal bargain-package "on the cirkit." 

My entertainments were mostly of the musical order, 
with the foremost local talent. But occasionally I 
sang such classics as, "Who treads the path of duty" 
to strictly high-browed music lovers, in conjunction 
with the Mendelssohn Quintette Club.* 

These distinguished engagements added feathers 
to my cap, likewise wings to the ironical shafts of my 



* The Mendelssohn was the first regular instrumental organization of 
its kind in America, and did pioneer work in introducing high-class music 
where previously it had been merely talked and written about. 



156 REMINISCENCES OF 

musical contemporaries, who invidiously remarked 
that "Barnabee was getting like the fly in the mo- 
lasses — awfully stuck up." Whereas, in reality, that 
"modesty which forbids my mentioning," etc., was, 
and still is, my chief asset, if not drawback. 

Indeed, I have felt uncomfortably concerned in the 
writing of these rambling reminiscences, lest the con- 
stant (though unavoidable) use of the pronoun "I" 
should strike the reader as a little too suggestive of 
the endless procession of telegraph poles along a rail- 
way line. 

It reminds me of the child of an eminent and pious 
Bostonian who was wont to prolong grace before meat 
whenever company happened to be present. One day 
he spun it out beyond mortal endurance — thanking 
the Almighty for everything in sight or remembrance, 
and finally ringing in the children, humbly acknowledg- 
ing what a priceless gift they were, not forgetting that 
they had such a good father and mother, and such 
inestimable privileges — why, I believe he would be 
going on yet, had he not paused a second for breath, 
when the eldest child, long restless with the pangs of 
hunger, threw up his hands in a discouraged way 
and sighed: 

"Oh, Lord, don't you wish you was us!" 

But my object, really, is not self-laudation under 
the pretext of relating pleasant memories of others. 
What I want to do is to give some more or less valuable 
excerpts from the log-book of one man's life- voyage; 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



157 



and in order that these shall have any interest, you 
must necessarily know what sort of a man is behind 
them. To this end he is frankly revealing himself as 
he goes along, after the manner of Jean Jacques 
Rousseau's "Confessions" (quite a long distance after 
him, I admit!) or De Quincey's "dreams of self-dope." 

And now let me add another word regarding the 
big I. I have been for many years a stage professional 
and have had in that time considerable experience; but 
regarding the method whereby success as an actor 
may be achieved I confess I have not gathered much 
general evidence. I have noticed, however, that those 
who strive earnestly to make progress in their art, 
and who studiously refrain from annexing themselves 
to the notion that they are the greatest people in the 
business — these usually succeed. 

Maybe after all the best success recipe is: "Don't 
get the Big Head." 

It has been suggested that from my vantage point 
of age and supposed experience I should tender some 
advice to 3'oung actors. I would be glad to do so, did 
I not feel that comment would be invoked as to how, 
where and whence I derived my knowledge and as- 
surance of being able to teach. A few added lines to 
those I have already offered will, I think, suffice. 

Real actors, like real singers, as I have before stated, 
are not made. They are like melodies, they are born, 
discovered and improved. Innate modesty prevents 
me from suggesting a striking example. An editor 



158 REMINISCENCES OF 

once wrote me asking the favor of three hundred words, 
stating what constituted the art of acting, a question 
he was asking of all of the leading actors. I replied 
that I had never written three hundred words for 
publication in my life, but I thought I could give him 
the essence of the true art of acting in considerably 
less space, and it was this: "The art of acting is the 
art of seeming natural." 

I never learned whether it was published, but I 
have been quite elated, in reading lately an extract 
from the words of Coquelin, the great French actor, 
in which he stated, almost identically, the same idea. 
At all events I feel quite sure that with the recipes I 
have given the young actor is fully equipped for Success. 

Let us resume. 

Those days of my concert impresarioship are full of 
cherished recollections, especially in the line of old 
acquaintances and friendships. Of course I revisited 
my native Portsmouth, a custom which was kept up 
for several years. At one of these concerts, Annie 
Louise Cary, one of the world's finest contraltos in 
her day, made under my management her first bow 
to the public, which later on bowed down to worship 
her. I paid her $1200 (minus the two ciphers), 
and had no reason to begrudge my Hammersteinian 
outlay. 

Miss Cary had, even as a girl, that voice which sank 
like a golden plummet deep down into the unsounded 
depths of the human heart. She studied four years in 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 159 

Europe, came back to the United States with Christine 
Nilsson, and toured the country in concert and oratorio. 
Subsequently she won the foremost honors of a Grand 
Opera career, becoming a lasting memory in such 
roles as "Amneris," "Azucena," and the like. But a 
happy marriage to C. M. Raymond ended her public 
career while still in its full splendor, leaving only the 
name of a gifted artist and an amiable and lovely 
woman.* 

Charles R. Adams, another of my associates and 
comrades, also went to Europe, and achieved the honor 
of becoming the court tenor in Vienna — an imperial 
sinecure which he held for nine years. All this, how- 
ever, did not prevent him from telling a good story 
"on" himself. 

Adams was a lyric tenor, with a voice of exquisite 
quality that, when heard in a small place like the 
Court Box, was most effective. On his way home to 
America, a London impresario, feeling that he could 
earn an honest guinea or two, with a real court singer, 
engaged him for a performance at Covent Garden. 
If you have ever been to the Opera there, you know 
what it meant. It was as if a boy should undertake 
to sing a lullaby solo in the arena of Madison Square 
Garden during the horse show. 

However, London dearly loves a court singer. A 



* "The hardest thing for me to do is to tell an enthusiastic but mistaken 
girl that her voice will never repay her for time and money spent upon it; 
but I do not think it wise or right to foster false hopes." — Annie Louise Gary 
Raymond, Boston Advertiser, March i, 1895. 



160 REMINISCENCES OF 

rousing audience greeted Mr. Adams at Covent Garden, 
and expectation ran high. Even the gallery gods, those 
drastic dispensers of blame and praise, were out in full 
force. 

The silver-voiced tenor sang for about five minutes 
before the sky-line could hear a note. Then a shrill- 
voiced gamin called out to a distant pal, so that the 
assembled thousands could get it all distinctly: 

"Hi, Chimmie! is it the gintelmun singin', or is it 
the gas?" 

During all this time, I too was in the running as a 
rising singer of low notes. Already the beginnings were 
made of that scrap-book library of critical apprecia- 
tions from which I was to extract consolation in later 
years, when Ben Wolff wrote of me: 

"Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale 
His infinite monotony." 

To offset this lemon, there were many glasses of 
lemonade. I freely drank all that was offered. Much 
strength was found in the cup from such musical high 
priests and prophets as Timothy Dwight, who in the 
sixties put himself on record as follows: 

"This gentleman (Barnabee) with the fine voice and 
method, singing humorous songs without a taint of coarse- 
ness, shows decided talent, if we mistake not, for higher 
works of art than any he has yet attempted." 

Slowly as the public singer in me developed, the 
professional comedian was of still tardier growth. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 161 

Well past my thirtieth milestone, I had as yet no 
thought or desire of becoming an actor — for my 
Mercantile Library and "private theatrical" exper- 
iences had been gone through in the same purely 
amateurish spirit which prompted the other boys and 
girls of our associations. 

And yet, unconsciously, I must have carried some 
sort of an "excelsior" banner in this line, as one of 
my farcicalities— perhaps Brown in "Mesmerism," or 
Job Wort in "The Blighted Being" — elicited from a 
newspaper philosopher this remarkable tribute: 

"When Humor died, its departed spirit took up its abode 
in Barnabee's earthly temple. He is the living skeleton of 
fun. Comicality is written on his forehead, it laughs from 
his eyes, it is portrayed in his motion, it plays around his 
lips, it hides in the dimples of his chin. To look at him is to 
laugh. Barnabee is a comedian because he can't help it. 
And the funniest thing of all is to see him attempt to keep 
from being funny. Gravity sits upon him with as much 
uneasiness as do the birds of night in lighted halls. Nature 
made him for a finished comedian and added its blessings 
in the shape of an excellent voice. When the trumpet 
sounds on the resurrection morn Barnabee will come up 
laughing and Gabriel will smile to see him coming." 

This sort of thing must have gradually opened my 
eyes to the fact that, if during a large part of my 
previous existence I had been plodding in the wrong 
direction, I was turning into the future path of bright- 
ness and hope at last, and Barnabee's Itinerarium 
promised to be continued until further notice. 




162 REMINISCENCES OF 



BARNABEE AS A HUMORIST 



Chicago Tribune, November 10, 1885: "He would be funny 
bringing a sick child down a five-story ladder out of a burning 
building." 

The Indicator, May 5, 1888 : "He can provoke a laugh with- 
out making a jumping jack of himself. He is a comedian 
of the Sothern school — an actor, not an acrobat, who never 
lowers himself personally to please gallery gods who clamor 
for monkey tricks." 

Sioux City Journal, January 6, 1891: "H. C. Barnabee 
is irresistibly funny — ripe, droll, finished and full of explosive 
surprises." 

Louisville Courier-Journal, January 30, 1891 : "Mr. Barna- 
bee never forces a laugh from his auditors, he invites one." 

Kansas City, February 24, 1891: "At all times he is a 
gentleman, and nothing in his quiet and Jeffersonian wit 
is ever vulgar or out of place." 

San Francisco Post, March 24, 1891: "There can be no 
doubt that he is the most finished comic opera comedian on 
the stage. His movements are grace itself, while his fun is 
as natural as water flowing from a spring. It is a pity that 
the numerous gentlemen who strut the stage and pretend 
to be comedians do not take a lesson or two from Mr. 
Barnabee." 

Tacoma Globe, May 1, 1891: "Mr. Barnabee's comedy is 
always pure and refined." 

Duluth Post, May, 1891: "Barnabee is, as ever, funny, not 
so much in what he says as in how he says it." 

Louisville Courier- Journal, December 4, 1891: "His 
humor is like unto a bottle of old Sillery." 

Indianapolis Journal, January 15, 1892: "His wit is 
pleasing without being vulgar; amuses without appealing 
to modern slang." 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



163 



Salt Lake Herald, May 4, 1892: "Barnabee exudes fun 
s a flower exudes perfume." 

Los Angeles, April 19, 1892: "Barnabee sucks the last 
drop of unctuous humor as a humming bird robs a honey- 
suckle of its drop of nectar." 

Boston Advertiser, December 27, 1892: "Mr. Barnabee's 
comedy is of the best — pure, artistic, unstained and free 
from any vulgar taint." 

Washington News, January 24, 1893 (dramatic critic) : 
"I have always considered Henry Clay Barnabee the very 
best of light opera comedians; I see no reason to change 
that opinion in the slightest degree. He is facile princeps. 
What I like about Barnabee is his originality; he never 
resorts to buffoonery or to the various tricks of the comic 
opera singer to provoke laughter. He is natural, easy and, 
above all, refined." 

Chicago Inter-Ocean, February 7, 1893: "Barnabee, who 
might be called the Gladstone of operatic comedy without 
offense. His humor is so gentle and spontaneous, sui generis, 
divorced from the froth so frequently blown across the foot- 
lights as fun." 

Los Angeles Sunday Times, November 17, 1895: "His work 
has a distinct flavor of native ability for the comic, and his 
drolleries and foolings for that reason hit the risibilities of his 
audience in a way that never fails to fetch the ready laugh." 

The Times- Democrat, New Orleans, December 7, 1896: 
"Barnabee's humor is of the true kind. His acting strikes 
one rather as a funny dream than a stage reality, and that, 
after all, is the greatest compliment that can be paid." 

Victoria Daily Colonist, Victoria, B. C, January 6, 1903: 
"Everything he says is funny." 

There have been few, if any, high class operatic comedians 
that can be likened to Mr. Barnabee. So happily had he 



164 REMINISCENCES OF 

crept into favor as a mirth-provoker, and closing so well 
with the temper and humor of his time, that the emphatic 
approval he received was but a just recognition of his powers. 
During his career of unbroken success unique in annals 
of operatic enterprises, nothing was ever presented by him 
which did not receive praises from the pens of the ablest 
of critics as well as the riotous approval of the gallery gods. 
Many press comments might be printed here. But what's 
the use? From the mass, the editor has presented enough 
excerpts to fairly represent the consensus of press opinion. 
—Editor. 

While applause is still ringing in my ears, let me say 
a few words of the stage generally and the influence 
upon the actor of harsh, unkindly criticism from the 
press. 

I do not speak of honest adverse criticism upon the 
actor's work; it is the privilege and duty of journalism 
in the interest and for the benefit both of the stage and 
the public to adversely criticize that which is unworthy 
of praise in plays or players. But what I refer to is 
the harsh and often cruel manner in which the actor, 
and even the actress, is pilloried before the public for 
faults or errors of which he or she may not have been 
aware, that would be only too gladly corrected if 
pointed out. 

These defects are sometimes referred to, however, 
in words that the writer of an article would not think 
of uttering in person to the unfortunate actor or actress, 
but, a thousand times worse, he spreads it broadcast 
over the country, humiliating, injuring, sometimes 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



165 



irretrievably ruining someone's future, for no crime 
done but an unintentional dramatic error committed. 

I often wonder if the thoughtless writer of a cruel 
criticism knows half of the misery he has caused by 
his "clever bit of writing." Actors and actresses are 
the most sensitive people in all this wide world. If 
the intention of criticism is to correct faults and errors 
on the stage, to better the work that is done there by 
intelligent comment on what is wrong in intention or 
execution, is it right or just or necessary to hold up to 
merciless censure or humiliating ridicule the uncon- 
scious offender? We men can bear it, though it may be 
unjustly bestowed, but women, women on the stage 
particularly, are keenly sensitive. I have seen them 
actually suffer, piteously, from what may be described 
as the blows of unjust criticism — sometimes unjust 
in itself, sometimes unjust in the needlessly cruel words 
in which it is uttered. Is this right? Does it effect 
any good result? Is it not wholly opposed to all rules 
of fair, honest, manly criticism, to which latter no 
actor can or does object? 

Oh, editors and critics, let me entreat you, be more 
kind, more gentle and considerate of the feelings of 
others. Empty the vitriol from your inkstands and 
pour in the milk of human kindness and mercy; for 
the men and women you so bitterly vilify tonight 
may be in their tombs on the morrow. 



Chapter XIV 



"TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN" 

"Lam tew wait! This iz a hard gait for a yung man tew travel, but iz the 
surest way tew git thare."— Josh Billings. 

IT also looked like starting in the right direction 
when a semi-professional friend of mine, who was 
himself a writer of "home and amateur" plays and 
a recitationist of large practice, proposed that we should 
form what is now a "sketch team," and stand in with 
the innumerable Lyceum Courses which at that time 
infested the country. The vehicle suggested for this 
invasion was a bit of playlet, which we had "acted 
out" together at the Mercantile Library Association, 
entitled "Too Late for the Train." 

Have you, dear reader, ever been too late for the 
train? It is a mishap which may occur to the best- 
regulated individual. However, I cannot remember 
that I ever was left; for, rather than take the awful 
risk of disappointing an audience and losing my forth- 
coming wad of the needful, I always took an unseason- 
ably early conveyance, even if onty a canal-boat, to 
the scene of my unfolding. 

But it will instantly occur to anyone what dire 
results, in a thousand ways, might and often do follow 
upon a delay in getting somewhere. For instance, a 

166 




Laura Oakly who played in 

"Robin Hood" 
Carlotta Maconda, original 
Annabel in "Robin Hood" 
Marie stone, the original 
Maid Marian in "Robin 
Hood" 



Zelie de Lussan of the 

Boston Ideals 
Jessie Bartlett Davis in the 

"Serenade" 

Grace Reals as Annabel in 

"Robin Hood" 



Helen Bertram, a prima 
donna with the Bostonians 

Carolyn Daniels, who played 
in "Rob Roy" 

Marie Stone in "Mlgnon" 




Ted Hoff, the original 
Robin Hood 

Ted Hoff in costume 

Harry Brown as the Town 
Crier in "Rob Roy" 



Arbuckle, the great cornet- 
ist, a member of the Barna- 

bee Concert Company 
Howard M. Dow, compan- 
ion, accompanist, guide, 
philosopher and friend of 
Henry Clay Barnabee dur- 
ing his entire concert career 
Allen C. Hinckley, bass, in 
"Maid Marian" with the 
Bostonians 



Eugene Cowles. the oriaini 1 

Will Scarlett in "Robin 

Hood" 

William Broderick as Cam- 
eron Lochiel in "Rob Roy" 

W. H. MacDonald in "Pyg- 
malion and Galatea" 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



167 



Governor's reprieve for a poor wretch about to die, 
arriving just after the trap has been sprung, or the 
electric volts turned on — the very thing we read about 
only in yesterday's papers. Or a promissory note 
falling due, which failure to liquidate at the exact 
minute of its maturity might compromise the integrity 
of good intentions. Or a bride, with orange blossoms 
and blushes, as per sacred convention, kept waiting 
at the church, as a telegram announces that the bride- 
groom has missed his train by just a fraction of a 
minute! But why suppose — here's a real occurrence 
right to the point : 

A lady was to take the last evening train for Boston 
from a village seven miles from Middleboro, Mass. 
She reached the station just in time to see the red 
lights at the rear of the last car on that last train 
disappearing around the curve. A solitary man was 
on the platform. The lady approached him, and 
asked : 

"Can you tell me, please, when the next train for 
Boston leaves?" 

"There isn't any next train tonight, madam," he 
replied. 

"Do you mean to tell me there is no other train 
tonight." 

"Madam, that is the unfortunate fact." 

"Where is the nearest hotel?" 

"There is no hotel, madam. This is only a small 
village, and — " 



168 REMINISCENCES OF 

"Well, the nearest boarding house, then," cried the 
lady, growing impatient and nervous. 

"Madam, there is no boarding-house. Everybody 
here lives in their own home." 

"But what am I to do?" 

"Madam, I think you will have to stay with the 
station agent." 

"Sir! I am a lady—" 

"So is the station agent, madam." 

In the environs of Boston there is a "belt" railway 
line, on which, by starting from the terminal in the 
morning and transferring judiciously, one can ride 
pretty nearly all day, round and round and round. 
One afternoon, just as the train was leaving the station 
next before Auburndale, an elderly gentleman entered 
and took the only unoccupied seat, which was beside 
a lady no longer of uncertain age. She promptly 
addressed him: 

"Sir, I hope you will excuse me. I don't know you, 
but would you be good enough to put me off this 
train at the next station?" 

"My dear lady," the old gentleman replied, "I 
would gladly be of service to you; but the fact is, I'm 
not so young as I used to be. The brakeman, there, 
is athletic, and I am sure he would do much better 
than I could." 

"Excuse me, sir, but I'll tell you why I asked. At 
eight o'clock this morning I left my home for Auburn- 
dale. I have been riding all day, and have passed my 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



169 



station half-a-dozen times. Each time the train stops 
there, I start to get off; but I have rheumatism, and 
am obliged to descend the steps slowly, and backward. 
No sooner does my foot touch the platform, than along 
comes the athletic brakeman, seizes me by the arm, 
gives me a boost, and yells out, 'All aboard !' And this 
time I would like to stop at Auburndale." 

But these illustrations are merely preliminary to 
the short and simple annals of my own "Too Late for 
the Train." 

The eccentric comedian, Sock (that was me), rushes 
upon the waiting-room scene, with his carpet-bag, just 
as a porter's voice on the departing train is heard 
singing out: 

"Last call for supper!" in the buffet car. He cools 
off in a soliloquy of some seven lengths, when enter 
Buskin, a manager, who is in the same boat as Sock, 
having also missed the train. The two have been 
looking for each other. The railway station becomes a 
Klaw and Erlanger theatrical booking-agency, and 
acting stunts are done, with the aid of costumes ex- 
tracted from the carpet-bag. Hamlet, fricasseed, makes 
"To be, or not to be," doubly sad in a rhymed travesty, 
while the Ghost (which was I) obliges with a comic 
song, and so on. Our epilogue wound up with, "We'll 
see you again"; and before the audience got a chance 
to respond, "Not if we see you first," the curtain fell. 

This playlet, so long as we kept in the vicinity of 
Boston and other sophisticated towns, went as well as 



170 REMINISCENCES OF 

could be expected without a lady in the cast. But when 
we struck the outlying districts, folks thought it rather 
shivery for a ghost to sing comic selections and recite 
"Peabody," so the piece was withdrawn for revision 
which has never yet been satisfactorily completed. 

I got my reward in being called "Button-Buster 
Barnabee" in the newspapers, and one day, in a crowded 
car, a countryman who had been eyeing me sharply 
came up and shouted: 

"Bean't you the feller they call 'Tew Late fer the 
Train'? Wall, didn't you show in Gloucester under 
that diskripshun? I thought so. Say, what was that 
'ere song where you thro wed fits? I'd give a quarter 
tew see you do it, right now!" 

But here, dear friend, is where we take another 
train. 



Chapter XV 



WITH WILLIAM WARREN AT THE BOSTON 
MUSEUM 

McCLANNIN's BENEFIT. — CONGRATULATIONS FROM WAR- 
REN. — WILLIAM WARREN THE PREMIER COMEDIAN. 
— THE GOLDEN JUBILEE. 

William Warren 
"Sweet, tender, playful, thoughtful, droll. 
His gentle genius still has made 
Mirth's perfect sunshine in the soul, 
And Pity's shade." 

— William Winter. 

THE most memorable instance of my veering into 
the right track, professionally, was when, early 
in 1866, I received and accepted an invitation 
from R. F. McClannin, the "Old Man" of the Boston 
Museum, to appear at his benefit on that historic and 
hallowed stage. 

The Boston Museum! What a pageant of recollec- 
tions the writing of this name conjures up. It was the 
first real theater I ever set foot in, on the occasion 
recounted in a previous chapter, when as a provincial 
lad from Portsmouth I came on an excursion to Boston 
to see the world. Here I saw the elder Booth (as 
Richard III), and heard a full string orchestra for the 
first time. Here, too, I came under the revelation and 

171 



172 REMINISCENCES OF 

spell of William Warren's matchless art — of which 
more anon. 

The Museum! Let me say a few words concerning 
the old place I remember so well. Its original title 
was "Boston Museum and Gallery of Fine Arts." It 
was opened June 14, 1841, and had, besides its hall of 
curiosities, a "music saloon" in which concerts and 
recitations were given, and dioramas and panoramas 
displayed. 

Its "hall of curiosities" had many alcoves filled with 
stuffed birds of every clime, and variegated plumage. 
As a matter of fact special emphasis was laid upon 
the curiosities and their value to the educational world. 
I remember a number of the early programmes called 
the attention of visitors to the skill of the taxidermist 
and announced that "persons having pet birds or 
quadrupeds they wish preserved can have them 
mounted in the best manner." 

Undoubtedly it was this large mausoleum of the 
preserved feathery tribe that gave the cue to that New 
England moss-back, who, when it was up to him to 
express himself on the subject of cremation, said: 

"Why, gol darn it, I don't never want to be cre- 
mated. B'gosh, I'd rayther be stuffed and maounted." 

Upstairs in the old building was the "wax statuary 
hall," one hundred feet in length. Among the "wax 
figgers" exhibited' were a number of tableaux. Here 
one could behold the "Murder of Miss McCrea," 
"The Three Stages of Intemperance," "The Game of 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 173 

Life," and other never-to-be-forgotten horrors. Of 
the many cold-blooded scenes, "The Corsair of the 
Gulf, or the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main" was 
a harrowing one. I shall never forget it. There was 
the villain with drawn dagger, glaring fixedly upon 
the innocent maiden with flaxen waxen hair, who, with 
bended knees glued to the floor, supplicating hands 
and glassy baby-stare, pleaded for a stay of the piratical 
proceedings. 

In 1892 a stop was put to exhibiting the various 
curiosities, and a few years later, the "wax creations" 
were disposed of and the mummies were presented to 
the Boston Art Museum. 

When a theater was added to the old Museum's 
attractions, it proved an immediate success and soon 
became a fixture amongst Boston's moral spectacles. 
For years and years many thousands of the good people 
of that city who would never be seen going to a theater 
as such, could compromise with their consciences and 
take it in as a Museum attachment, without violence 
to their uprightness and religious scruples. 

This little fiction of conventionality is characteristic 
of our race. It has had striking manifestation of late 
years in the tremendous vogue of "Ben-Hur" — a 
sacred melodrama which owes its success to the fact 
that in it the truly good playgoer can see a boating- 
match, a rescue at sea, a horse-race, and other tabooed 
sports, yet have the Holy Spirit moving across the 
stage in the form of a calcium light, so as to harmonize 



174 REMINISCENCES OF 

with Bible-class ideals. An influential Hebrew theat- 
rical manager, one of the principal promoters of this 
splendid strategic combination, said in my presence, 
with peculiarly appropriate gestures: "It's only infidels 
that roast our show!" 

Can you tie that for optimistic nerve? 

In addition to what I have written regarding the 
Boston Museum I might say that it was in February, 
1843, that dramatic performances were first held there. 
On September 4 of the same year representations by 
a regular stock company first began, and at the initial 
season Miss Adelaide Phillipps, then a mere child, 
made her debut as "Little Pickle" in "The Spoiled 
Child." 

The same season witnessed the first appearance of 
John Brougham, W. H. Smith, C. W. Hunt, G. H. 
Wyatt, G. E. Locke, G. C. Germon, C. Evans, J. M. 
Field, G. C. Howard, W. L. Ayling, W. F. Johnson, 
C. H. Saunders, Mrs. W. L. Ayling, Mrs. Maeder, 
Mrs. J. Reid, Mrs. C. W. Hunt, Mrs. Germon, Miss 
M. A. Gannon, Mrs. E. Groves, Miss C. Fox (the famous 
Topsy), Fanny Jones, Mrs. Cramer and Thomas Conner. 
The last performance given in the old Museum was 
that of June 1, 1903, when Charles Frohman's Empire 
Theater Company — the last company to appear in 
the theater prior to its demolition — presented "Mrs. 
Dane's Defense," a play in four acts, by Henry Arthur 
Jones. The "farewell players" were Guy Standing, 
Oswald Yorke, W. H. Crompton, E. Y. Backus, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 175 

William Courtleigh, George Osbourne, Jr., W. B. 
Barnes, Frederick Raymond, Margaret Anglin, Ethel 
Hornick, Lillian Thurgate and Sandol Milliken. 

But I am wandering into the historic field. I set 
out to chronicle my first actual histrionic appearance 
on a real stage, with bona fide actors — my practical 
butting in to that distinguished company of cele- 
brated players — a procession including, besides Warren 
the elder and the younger Booth, Mrs. Barrett, Mrs. 
Farren, Barry Sullivan, G. V. Brooke, Agnes Robert- 
son, Dion Boucicault, and others of name and fame. 

At McClannin's benefit, I was cast to play Toby 
Twinkle in "All That Glitters Is Not Gold," to sing 
"Simon the Cellarer" in costume and make-up, and 
to play Cox, in the best-known of Madison Morton's 
farcical afterpieces, to the Box of the beloved and 
admired Warren. 

It was an unforgettable occasion — one calculated to 
"harrow up my soul, freeze my young blood, make my 
knotted and combined locks to part, and each particular 
hair to stand on end, like quills upon a fretful porcu- 
pine," besides setting off my redoubtable pneumo- 
gastric nerve in rampageous mood. The physician to 
whom I confided my fears that something dreadful 
was going to happen, tried to reassure me by saying 
that he had reserved two seats in the front row, and 
that if I should collapse he would arise and apologize 
to the audience for my "untimely taking-off." 

In accordance with the primitive system prevailing 



176 REMINISCENCES OF 

at the Museum, the center of the parquet only was 
reserved, and that by simple slips of paper. The side 
and rear seats were open to the rush of the thirty- 
centers. 

To overcome the difficulty, late comers were wont 
to hire boys to stampede the desirable seats, these to 
be given up to the actual purchasers before or just 
after the rise of the curtain. Then there was a tre- 
mendous get-up-and-get through the narrow aisles, 
with recorded casualties, on the gala-night to which 
I refer, of two broken arms, two dislocated ribs and 
several faints. Altogether it was a huge success. The 
battle had been won. 

The one thing connected with the performance which 
I remember clearly is that Mr. Warren congratulated 
me personally, and said mine was the best first appear- 
ance he had ever seen. 

Blessings on the memory of that grand old actor! 
I could never pay the debt I owe him for the innumer- 
able splendid examples he gave me of true and un- 
affected art. Without disparagement of others, I have 
always regarded William Warren as the very best 
comedian it was ever vouchsafed me to see. 

I have known of but two who were his peers, and he 
surpassed them in his wonderful versatility. He 
could play Sir Anthony Absolute, or Bob Acres, or 
Sir Harcourt Courtley, or Tony Lumpkin, or Sir 
Peter Teazle, or Jesse Rural, or Poor Pillicoddy, with 
equal perfection. The first time I ever saw him was 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 177 

THE 

Evening Program 

Vol.. 1. Friday, Nov. <J. IoRij. So 10 

BOSTON MUSEUM 

Acting Manager, Mr. R. M. Field. 

BENEFIT OF 

MR. R. F. McCLANNIN, 

I'poo which occasion the distinguished amateur, 

MR. H. C. BARNABEE, 

Who hns jrenerously volunteered, will maU- Us fii-M* appearance upon ibc regular Miff 

This Friday Evening, Nov. 9, 1866, 

Will be presented T. & J. M. Mori an 'a beautiful drama, iu tuo nets, 

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD! 

Tobv Twinkle Mr. H. C Barnabee 1 Sir Arthur Lascetles J. A. Smith 

Stephen Plnra ....... L. R. She well ' Mamu Cibbs. Miss Annie Clarke 

Jasper Plum R. F McClaomn I Lad\ l.eatberbrtd^e Mis. .1. It. Vincent 

Frederick William Plum W m . Hams | Lady Valeria Mrs. T M. Hunter 



The Orchestra, conducted by Mr V Von Olker. will perform the following 
varied selections of music 

L Overture — ''On ihe Rhine" La ace o 

'2. Walzer — "Scbmacbt Locken" .. Fohrbach 

1. Obligato Clsrioet — "Martha" Klotow 

4. Duet— "Wo. Tell" rfnrini 

5. Potpourri Oo Melodies Of The War Von Olker 



To be followed, first time (his season, by the glorious Warren Farce, The 

PHANTOM BREAKFAST 

Fit* Mortimer Mr. W. Warren I Mrs. D. •< |«rlv Mrs. T. SI. Hunter 

Mr. Deeper! v .... K. F McClannin Selma .lane Sima. Mr* I; F McClaunio 

Kose Mi!>. Maria Maedcr | 



SONG " s ""°" "» Ccllai.r' Mr . H. C^Barnabee 

To conclude wiib the famous Farce, 

BOX AMD COX 

Bo> Mr. W. Warren J Co\ . H. C. Bamnhee 

SATURDAY AFTERNOON— A Great Bill— The great |.lay of ' The Cbnican Bro- 
thers," and the glorious farce, "A Qoict Family." 

Monday. Nov. 12— Revival of "Trie SONS OP THE CAPK," introducing the. 
Wonderful Storm S cene, with all it s origi nal eifects. 

SEATS SECURED" ONE WEEK IN ADVANCE 



Admission 30 Ct«. Reacrved Seats 50 Ct« Oavhemni Chairs 7S C» 

Children under 10 years of a^e. 15 Cts. Children iu anus noi admitted 
Exhibition Hall open at 6' o'clock. Evening EVrfonuanara vummvnre at V. oVIork. 
Afternoon Performances. Wednesday and Saturday, at 22 o'clock. 

TREASURER M R. GEORGE W. BLATCH FORD 

Prlute.1 and Publrahnl hy Inm-xl \,].-.r. c ,„„i„l|. 11,-iu.i 

PROGRAM ANNOUNCING HENRY CLAY BAKNABEE'S FIRST 
APPEARANCE ON THE PROFESSIONAL STAGS 



178 REMINISCENCES OF 

as "Friend Waggles; or Where's my Animal?" Dressed 
in the garb of a countryman, with a worn and be- 
spattered linen coat, he ambled on the stage and told 
the comical hard-luck story of how his "animile," 
which he was riding into town, had shied at a hoop- 
skirt and treated him to a game of see-saw. "I stuck 
on fer awhile, keepin' hold of mane and tail, then I 
felt myself on something soft — it was mud, and d — d 
dirty mud, too." After more than fifty years that 
figure and those words stand out as distinctly in my 
mind as though the impression had been fresh but 
yesterday. 

Warren would take up character specialized by 
visiting comedians, and leave them all at the post. 
The average actor makes fame and fortune in one or 
two, or at most half a dozen parts. Warren, in his 
long career of thirty-six years at the Boston Museum — 
for he practically never appeared anywhere else — 
played five hundred and seventy-seven parts, and he 
touched nothing he did not adorn. Without stopping 
to think hard, I can name at least twenty-five imper- 
sonations of the first magnitude, each of which, under 
present conditions, might last a starring comedian 
five seasons. 

Mr. Warren played in over thirteen thousand per- 
formances at the Museum. A wonderful record. Talk 
of your emotional actors! Why, he could and did, 
nightly, draw tears and laughter in the same breath. 
To observe his finesse and gradations in marking the 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 179 

many phases of a complicated character was a price- 
less lesson in the art of acting. In my long and loving 
study of him, I suppose I absorbed unconsciously at 
first, and with deliberate intention afterward when I 
became fired with the spirit of emulation — something 
of his style and methods, which proved of the greatest 
service to me in after years. 

It would not be surprising if other comedians since 
widely recognized could trace their inspiration to the 
same source. Though the son of an Englishman, War- 
ren was the founder of an American tradition which, 
though never regularly transmitted or conserved, still 
as an appreciable influence survives. 

It may be of interest to the reader to know that Mr. 
Warren's mother was a sister-in-law to the grandfather 
of the comedian Joseph Jefferson. The elder Warren 
was an actor and achieved a reputation as a comedian 
of high rank. He left England in 1796, and among 
the passengers on board the same ship was the famous 
actress Anne Brunton. In 1806, he married Mrs. 
Merry (nee Anne Brunton) as his second wife. His 
third wife was Miss Esther Fortune, who on the seven- 
teenth of November, 1812, gave birth to the William 
Warren of whom we are now speaking. 

Such a genius necessarily had its peculiarities. One 
of these was Warren's habit of occasionally disappear- 
ing from the public, as well as the private and mana- 
gerial gaze, immediately after rehearsal on Monday 
morning, not to materialize again until the next 



180 REMINISCENCES OF 

Monday night's performance. No one knew where 
he was, or what he was doing. 

To search for him was unavailing. His retreat, like 
everything else he did, was masterly. But promptly 
the next Monday night, on he walked, dead letter per- 
fect in his part, delivered the goods, and an adoring 
audience paid tribute without reserve. 

Warren had no use for alleged improvements on the 
author's lines. He was a purist, and stuck to the 
original text. Any interpolation or "gag" threw him 
off his balance. 

Once, on some festival occasion, when stars were 
thick in the cast, and a certain license or latitude pre- 
vailed, E. L. Davenport was playing with Warren in 
that favorite nautical "drammar," "Black-Eyed Susan." 
Davenport, as William, the Sailor, was relating to the 
ensemble the exciting story of the capture and dis- 
section of a whale. He should have asked, "What do 
you suppose we found?" whereupon Warren, as 
Gnatbrain, would say, "Why, his innerds, I suppose." 
But on this occasion only, Davenport, with a twinkle 
in his larboard eye, said — 

"What do you suppose we found, besides his innerds?" 

The look of disgust and dismay on W T arren's face 
as he turned up stage would have paralyzed an Egyp- 
tian mummy. 

Warren's hair was a personal peculiarity. He had 
none. This enabled him, on the stage, to wear a wig 
that did not look wiggy. On the street, his handsome 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



181 



black peruke was obvious enough, but he was the 
cynosure of all eyes, the observed of all observers. 
For my part I admired him so much that I would 
willingly have braved a trip through the Indian terri- 
tor\% and lost my hair — or would have become as clay 
in the hands of the potter, and been created over 
again — if I could have acquired a sufficient resem- 
blance to be mistaken for Warren. But Nature de- 
creed otherwise; and here I am — with gray hair and 
plenty of it — so that plainly I was never even his 
heir apparent. 

The most shining day in the Boston Museum's 
historical record as a theater was Saturday, October 28, 
1882. On that memorable day, the great Warren testi- 
monial performances were given, in commemoration 
of the fiftieth anniversary of his adoption of the stage 
and of his having reached his seventieth milestone. 
It was a great day, and I have often regretted enforced 
absence prevented my presence at the old Museum. 
"The Heir-at-Law" was presented in the afternoon, 
with the comedian as Dr. Pangloss; "The School for 
Scandal," with Warren as Sir Peter Teazle, in the 
evening. 

The occasion, according to one present, was signal 
in every way, and partly because the comedian, who 
could almost never be prevailed upon to address his 
hearers in his own words, made two exquisite little 
speeches of appreciation to his public admirers and 
adherents. 



182 REMINISCENCES OF 

At the matinee performance, after the curtain had 
descended on the third act, calls were made for a 
speech from the venerable player. Stepping before the 
footlights, he said in a voice tremulous with emotion : — 

"Ladies and Gentlemen: It is seldom that it is granted to 
an actor to assist at the semi-centennial anniversary of his 
first appearance on the stage. It is a part requiring a great 
many long rehearsals, and only one performance. [Laughter 
and applause.] I cannot flatter myself, ladies and gentlemen, 
that this compliment is due to my humble efforts to amuse 
you through a long series of years, but rather that it is due 
to your generosity. I do not think any reminiscences of 
mine would be very entertaining to you, not being partial 
to ancient history [laughter], and I have been so long used 
to appear on these boards as somebody else, that it is not 
very congenial to me to stand here and talk about myself, 
making, as the poet says, 'himself to stand the hero of his 
tale.' [Applause.] I thank you from the bottom of my 
heart. I have also some acknowledgments to make to the 
committee of arrangements, to Mr. Frederick P. Vinton, 
to the gentlemen of the press, to the managers of this theatre, 
to the members of the Museum company, and to the many 
kind friends who offered their services — Mr. Barnabee, 
among the first, Edwin Booth, Lester Wallack, John Mc- 
Cullough, Joseph Jefferson, and last, but not least, Miss 
Mary Anderson and Mrs. Drew; but previous professional 
engagements prevented their appearance. Now, thanking 
you for this and the many, many past favors which are 
registered where every day I turn the leaf to read them, 
allow me to bid you farewell." [Loud applause.] 

In the evening, Mr. Warren was greeted with an 
enthusiasm that was little short of frenzy, I am told. 




\V. H. MacDonald aa Indian 
Chief In "The Ogallalas" 

W. H. MacDonald as Indian 
chief in "The Ogallalas" 

M. \v. Whitney as count of 

Kanclitukufl in "Fatlnltza" 



William Warren, the creat- 
es! actor and comedian of 
his generation, In the eel l- 
matlon of Mr. Barnabee 
Eugene Field, the beloved 
poet, who was a dear friend 

of Mr. Barnabee 
Peter Lang, original Guy 
of Glaborne, "Kobiu Hood" 



w . ii. MacDonald In 
'Patience" 

M. W. Whitney as Count 
Arnhelm In the "Bohemian 

Girt" 

Tom Karl in the "Bohem- 
ian Girl" 




Fred Dixon, who staged 
"Robin Hood" 

Sam L. Studley, musical 

director, Ideals and Bos- 

tonians 



Reginald de Koven, com- 
poser of "Robin Hood" 
James G.Blaine, the Plumed 
Knight, a dear friend and 

admirer of Barnabee 

W. H. Fessenden as the 

reporter in "Fatinitza" 



Eugene Cowles of the 

Bostonians 



W. H. MacDonald 



Harry- B. Smith. Librettist 
of "Robin Hood" 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



183 



SATURDAY, OCTOBER 28, 1882, 

in celebration of the 
of the adoption of the stage by 

MR. WILLIAM WARREN. 

Two Grand Performances! 

AFTERNOON PERFORMANCE AT 2. 



Dr. Pangloss, . 

Dick Dowlas, . 
Daniel Dowlas, . 
Zekiel Homespun, . 
Mr. Steadfast, 
Henry Moreland, 
Kenrick, .• . 

John, 

Waiter at " Blue Boar," 
Waiter at Hotel, 
Cicely Homespun, . 
Deborah Dowlas, . 
Caroline Dormer, . 



Mr. William Warren 

Mr. Charles Barron 

Mr. Alfred Hudson 

Mr. Geo. W. Wilson 

Mr. James Burrows 

Mj\ J. B. Mason 

Mr. James Nolan 

Mr. Fred. P. Ham 

Mr. J. S. Maffitt, Jr. 

Mr. A. R. Whvtal 

. Miss Annie Clarke 

Mrs. J. R. Vincent 

Miss Norah Bartlbtt 



«J-ETENING PERFORMANCE AT 7 3-4. 



Sir Peter Teazle, 
Charles Surface, . 

Joseph Surface, . . 

Sir Oliver Surface, 
Sir benjamin Backbite, ■ 
Crabiree, . . 

Moses, . . , 

Careless (with song), . 
Rowley, . . i 

Trip, . . . 

Sir Tobey, • . . , 

Snake, . • • 

Sir Harry Bumper, . 

Servant to Lady Sneerwell, 
Servant to Joseph Surface, 
Lady Teazle, 

Mrs. Candour, . ■ 

Maria, . . ' . 

Lady Sneerwell, 



S9t 

Mr. William Warren 

. Mr. Charles Barron 

Mr. Geo. R. Parks 

Mr. Alfred Hudson 

Mr. J. B. Mason 

. Mr Ceo. W. Wilson 

. Mr. Wm. Seymour 

Mr. Ceo. C. Boniface, Jr. 

Mr. J. Burrows 

Mr. J. Nolan 

Mr. James R. Pitman 

Mr. Fred. P. Ham 

Mr. J. S. Maffitt, Jr. 

Mr. Ceo. H. Cohill 

Mr. A. R. Whvtal 

Miss Annie Clarke 

Mrs. J. R. Vincent 

Miss Norah Bartlett 

Miss Katb Ryan 



184 REMINISCENCES OF 

At the close of one of the scenes he addressed the 
audience as follows: — 

"Ladies and Gentlem&n: Perhaps on such an occasion as 
this I may be permitted to come nearer to you and address 
you as patrons and friends. It may be a questionable matter 
whether the fiftieth anniversary of the year of any man's 
life should be a matter of congratulation rather than perhaps 
one of sympathy or condolence. [Laughter and applause.] 
You seem, however, most emphatically to rank it with the 
former, and certainly I have no cause to class it with the 
latter. To have lived in this city of Boston happily for more 
than five and thirty years, engaged in so good and successful 
a theater as this, and cheered always by your favor, and then 
to have that residence crowned by such an assemblage as 
I see before me, is glory enough for one poor player. [Ap- 
plause.] My humble efforts have never gained for me any 
of the great prizes of my profession until now, but failing 
to reach the summit of Parnassus, it is something to have 
found so snug a nook in the mountain-side. [Applause.] 
I came here to thank you, and I do thank you from the very 
bottom of my heart. I have some grateful acknowledgments 
to make to others — to the gentlemen of the committee of 
arrangements as well as to those who presented the painting 
by the artist; to the gentlemen of the press; to the manager 
of this theater, and the ladies and gentlemen engaged in it. 
Also, I should name several distinguished volunteers — Mr. 
Barnabee, who was the first to offer his services, Edwin 
Booth, Lester Wallack, John McCullough, Lawrence Bar- 
rett, and last, but not least, Miss Mary Anderson and Mrs. 
John Drew. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I wish that all 
present within the sound of my voice may by some event 
in life be made as happy as you have made me today by this 
event in mine." [Prolonged applause.] 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 185 

At the conclusion of this short speech, a chorus of 
fifty ladies and gentlemen stationed behind the scenes 
began singing "Auld Lang Syne," and the touching 
strains of the familiar song brought tears to not a few 
eyes as the slowly descending curtain hid the grand old 
actor from the view of the audience. I might say 
more and quote lines from various pens concerning 
the Golden Jubilee of William Warren. But what's 
the use? 

William Warren was our premier comedian. The 
pity of it was, the country at large knew next to noth- 
ing of him. Like Rufus Choate, the greatest advocate 
America has ever known, he was content with Boston's 
"bushel basket," and never hankered to be a national 
luminary. 

Mr. Warren died September 21, 1888, and all that 
is mortal of the noble gentleman and great actor lies 
buried in Mt. Auburn Cemetery. Truly, as some 
critic has remarked, "William Warren played many 
parts in his time, but he played none better than that 
of William Warren. The curtain has fallen on all. 
Hail and farewell!"* 



* Mr. Warren mentioned Mr. Barnabee in his "Golden Jubilee Addresses" 
as you will see by reference. To be mentioned by him publicly was to be a 
celebrity. — Editor. 



Chapter XVI 



"THE CORK LEG" AND "THE PATENT ARM" 

"We can only restore the art of acting by resurrecting its essentials of great- 
ness — the first of these is facial expression." — Henry E. Dixey. 

A FTER my first stroke of success at the Museum, 
Ji^ I played there several Saturday nights in char- 
acters like Henry Dove in "Married Life," and 
Aminidab Sleek in "The Serious Family," and achieved 
a few more honors. But even that could not draw me 
away from my beaten path of playing for myself on 
the concert, lyceum and entertainment stage. 

I now come to the most moving and emotional part 
of my checkered career. I refer to the start, progress 
and never-ending finish of "The Cork Leg." This song 
has become so identified with my name that I have 
often felt as a presentiment that at last some part of 
it, say the concluding stanza, would be my epitaph : 

"I've told my story both plain and free, 
Of the richest merchant that ever could be, 
Who never was buried — though dead, you see, 
And I've been singing his 1-e-g. 

Hi tu, di nu, ri tu, di ni nu, 

Ri tu, di nu, ri na." 

This "Ri tu, di nu" had its premiere introduction, 
so far as I was concerned, at a musical festival in one 
of the interior towns of New Hampshire. These 

186 



HENRY CLAY Bi 



187 



functions were in great vogue in New England, in 
the middle and latter part of the last century. They 
were the outlet and expression of the musical talent 
of the provincial towns. A popular conductor usually 
presided whose claim to celebrity, perhaps, was accen- 
tuated in his being the compiler of a tune book, com- 
posed of a mile and a quarter of melody, cut off in 
lengths of short metre, long metre, common and un- 
common metre, and "Meet her by moonlight alone," 
to suit the purchaser. 

This reference does not relate to the sweet and 
melodious compositions of the venerable Dr. L. O. 
Emerson, who still delights to recall the memories of 
those early song-fests, and remains a pre-eminent 
figure in the development of music in America. We 
attempted such pretentious things as the "Creation," 
and Rossini's "Stabat Mater," and then at the end 
would send the audience home happy with what the 
weekly Home Journals loved to call "a mirth -pro- 
voking selection." 

At the matinees, the artists were at liberty to select 
from the music rolls any old or new number which 
might suit their voices or their fickle fancies. 

So, one fine day, I tried on "The Cork Leg." I had 
often heard of this descriptive ballad, which was 
originally brought to this country by Harrison Finn, 
who used to sing it stationary as it were — that is to 
say without any movement of the limb, branches or 
foliage. I believed I could better it by putting in some 



188 REMINISCENCES OF 

modern machinery in the way of facial and muscular, 
as well as vocal expression. 

After a long search through loft and crypt of Oliver 
Ditson's overladen repository, I unearthed "The 
Cork Leg." Being long on sentimental ballads, but 
short on comic songs, I immediately annexed it, and 
it became a part of my musical self. 

If any of my readers ever practised the juvenile 
accomplishment of rubbing the chest with one hand 
while patting the top of the head with the other, they 
may form an idea of the physical difficulties to be 
overcome before I could keep my head, hair, eyes, 
lips, arms and legs all going simultaneously, and in 
different directions; but I mastered the trick. 

Whether or not my New Hampshire audience sus- 
pected that they were the canine upon which an un- 
tried medicine was being tested, I do not know. Cer- 
tain it is that they received it with a howl of delight, 
and settled its fate as a fixture in my repertoire. 

How many times I have sung that song it would be 
impossible to compute. Five thousand would be an 
inside guess. The Buffalo Enquirer does a little figur- 
ing on this question when it says: — 

"The mind of man does not reach beyond the time when 
Barnabee first sang this amusing ditty. It has been said that 
this song was the making of Barnabee, but it really was the 
other way. No one has ever sung or ever will sing it as he 
does. He must have sung that song more times than James 
O'Neill has played 'Monte Cristo.' " 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 189 

Right here let me record that I once had the honor 
of singing this eccentric ditty in a hall at Concord, 
Mass., with the august Ralph Waldo Emerson an 
interested listener among those present. The Sage of 
New England, for the nonce dismounted from his 
spiritual pedestal, sat scarcely three feet distant from 
me. His sphinx-like features relaxed, and his whole 
anatomy responded in unconscious sympathy to the 
contagious rhythm. 

There is a story told that when the famous danseuse, 
Fanny Ellsler, hypnotized Boston, Emerson whis- 
pered to Margaret Fuller, "Margaret, this is poetry," 
and she responded soulfully, "Ralph, it is religion!" 

My "Cork Leg" did not draw forth quite so rhap- 
sodical an appreciation as that. Nevertheless, I shall 
always remember with a pleasurable thrill that after 
my performance, Emerson in his own home took occa- 
sion to say, in his benign manner, that he had been 
delighted with the concert in general, and with "The 
Cork Leg" in particular. 

But it must not be supposed thai the cork leg was 
allowed to pursue its erratic course alone. Oh, no! it 
must have a running mate, a companion, as it were, 
to encourage it to do its best, after years of long 
distance speed. 

I cudgelled my brains, every year for a long period, 
to think even of a distant relation, who could be de- 
pended upon to keep up with the procession, but they 
all proved lame, halt or blind, and I was about giving 



190 REMINISCENCES OF 

up in despair, when my friend Geo. M. Baker, who was 
with me when the "train" started just before we 
arrived at the station, leaving us in the annoying 
situation of being "too late," came to my rescue with, 
"What's the matter with a Patent Arm?" I grabbed 
at the suggestion with the wild cry — "Where is it?" 
And he said, "The manufactory is closed on account of 
a double strike on the part of the well-armed employees, 
but I think I can put up a job that will answer every 
purpose"— and, well, I set him to work. The result 
was "The Patent Arm" became a fixture in my attrac- 
tions. It was not such a success as its predecessor, 
for that is going yet, but it proved an excellent "filler 
in" while the cork leg was bumping along by the road- 
side, and for several years shared popular applause 
with the favorite sprinter. 

Of the two, the "arm stunt" was the harder to 
present. The necessary complicated and rapid motion 
of the supposed artificial limb involved more complex 
motions of the muscles of the chest, and a larger tax 
on the lungs than could be supplied at short notice. 
However, what I lacked in volume of tone, I more 
than made up in expression of feature, and so pulled 
through, in the most bona fide manner. 

For the benefit of those poor benighted people who 
have never had the privilege of witnessing the struggle 
or seeing and hearing the "only Barnabee" depict 
the rival songs, I append copies of both, and leave it 
to their imaginations to supply the muscular and facial 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 191 

contortions, which were inseparable from the effort 
from start to finish! 

THE CORK LEG 

I'll tell you a tale now without any flam, 
In Holland, there dwelt Mynheer Von Clam, 
Who ev'ry morning said "I am 
The richest merchant in Rotterdam." 

Ri tu, di nu, Ri tu, di ni nu, 

Ri tu, di nu, ri na. 

One day, when he'd stuff'd him as full as an egg, 
A poor relation came to beg, 
But he kick'd him out without broaching a keg, 
And in kicking him out he broke his leg. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

A surgeon, the first in his vocation, 
Came and made a long oration 
He wanted a leg for anatomization, 
So he finished his job by amputation. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

"Mr. Doctor," says he, when he'd done his work, 
"By your sharp knife I lose one fork, 
But on two crutches I never will stalk, 
For I'll have me a beautiful Leg of Cork." 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

An artist in Rotterdam, 'twould seem, 
Had made cork legs his study and theme; 
Each joint was as strong as an iron beam, 
And the springs were a compound of clock-work and 
steam. 

Ri tu, di nu, etc. 



192 REMINISCENCES OF 

The leg was made, and fitted right, 
Inspection did the artist invite. 
Its fine shape gave Mynheer delight, 
And he strapped it on, and screwed it tight. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

He walked thro' squares and pass'd each shop, 
Of speed he went to the utmost top; 
Each step he took with a bound and a hop, 
And he found his leg he could not stop! 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

Horror and fright were in his face, 
The neighbors thought he was running a race 
He clung to a lamp post to stay his pace, 
But the leg wouldn't stay, but kept on the chase, 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

Then he call'd to some men with all his might, 
"Oh! stop this leg, or I'm murder'd quite!" 
But though they heard him their aid invite, 
In less than a minute he was out of sight. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

He ran o'er hill, and dale, and plain, 
To ease his weary bones he'd fain, 
Did throw himself down — but all in vain, 
The leg got up and was off again. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

He walked of days and nights a score, 
Of Europe he had made the tour, 
He died — but though he was no more, 
The leg walked on the same as before! 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 193 

In Holland sometimes it comes in sight, 
A skeleton on a cork leg tight; 
No cash did the artist's skill requite, 
He never was paid — and it served him right. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

I've told my story both plain and free, 
Of the richest merchant that could be, 
Who never was buried — though dead, you see, 
And I've been singing his L. E. G. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 



THE PATENT ARM 

There was a man in sixty-four 
Who hung a shingle at his door: 
"Ye who would patent arms secure, 
Come buy, come buy, beg alms no more." 

Ri tu, di nu, Ri tu, di ni nu, 

Ri tu, di nu, ri na. 

It was an arm of curious twist — 
Muscles to work, and supple wrist, 
A bona-fide five-fingered fist 
No foe when doubled could resist. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

Inside this arm of rare design 
Was hid a dollar steam engine, 
Which speed and safety both combine, 
And got red hot on spirits of wine. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

Into his shop there came one day 
A chap whose arm was shot away; 



194 REMINISCENCES OF 

Who looked it o'er, then cried "Hooray! 
With your patent arm I'll march away." 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

His aid the tickled genius lent, 
To the soldier' stump 'twas quickly bent; 
A valve was ope'd by way of vent, 
A screw top turned, and away it went. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

"Aha, she goes!" cried the patentee, 
"A finer arm you ne'er did see; 
Such a cure deserves a noble fee, 
Five hundred in gold pay unto me." 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

Said not a word the soldier chap, 
The genius got from his arm a rap 
Which came so like a thunder clap, 
What could he do but quickly "drap"? 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

Out of the house the soldier flew, 
Seeking in vain to turn the screw 
And let off steam, which stronger grew, 
And sent the arm in a circle new. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

The people scooted from the street, 
The horses fled in wild retreat; 
A big policeman came to meet 
The arm he caught, and changed his beat. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

Then came a squad on capture bent, 
Over his head a noose was sent, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 195 

Fast pinioned to a cell he went, 
To let off steam, perhaps repent. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

Once in the cell, they set him free, 
Up came the arm, and down went three; 
He banged them 'till they couldn't see, 
Beat down the walls and fled in glee. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

He hurried home, 'twas getting late, 
His loving spouse stood at the gate; 
To his arms she sprang with joy elate, 
His arm sprang too, and broke her pate. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

He turned the screw; with an awful whack 
Round came the arm, on another tack, 
And flew in his face, till alas! alack! 
It laid him out flat on his back. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

A crowner's jury quickly roped, 
The fallen soldier's boiler ope'd, 
And when they found the steam had sloped, 
Decided he was telescoped. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 

And from that time the rumor ran 
A skeleton to walk began; 
Who threw out his arm with a lengthy span, 
'Twas the ghost of the patent arm-y man. 
Ri tu, di nu, etc. 



Chapter XVII 



THE PEACE JUBILEES AND THE APOLLO 
CLUB 

GILMORE'S BAND. — THE FRENCH DAY. — "THE HAYMAK- 
ERS." RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE APOLLO CLUB. 

"Music is a gift of God. It will drive away the devil and makes people 
cheerful. Occupied with it, man forgets all anger, unchastity, pride and other 
trices. Next to theology I give music the next place and highest praise." — 
Martin Luther. 

THE next happenings that appear on the horizon 
of my remembrance are the Boston Peace 
Jubilees. These mighty musical conventions 
were conceived, developed, inaugurated and conducted 
by Patrick Sarsfleld Gilmore, assisted by Carl Zerrahn, 
the leader of the Salem Brass Band, and the Berlioz 
of Boston. 

The admiration with which Gilmore and his organi- 
zation were regarded by the people round about 
Massachusetts Bay is best epitomized in the case of 
an old gentleman from Gloucester, who, listening for 
the first time to the Edison phonograph in a slot con- 
servatory, and hearing a sudden strain of martial music, 
jerked the rubber tube out of the machine and made a 
dash for the street, exclaiming: "My God, it's the 
Salem Brass Band!" 

196 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 197 

The jubilees were stupendous affairs. The first, in 
the late sixties, was such a success that it was repeated 
three years later on a much larger scale. The Music 
Hall, a veritable Coliseum, held an audience of thirty 
thousand people, besides the multitudinous chorus of 
well-nigh twenty thousand singers, recruited from 
those rural bodies of which I have written. The 
orchestra consisted of five hundred well-trained in- 
strumentalists. The solos were sung in unison by all 
of the resident vocalists. Fearful and wonderful 
loud-pedal effects were obtained by the device — 
original, I believe, with Mr. Gilmore — of discharging 
cannon at salient points of the music, by means of an 
arrangement of electrical keys on the conductor's 
stand. 

Fancy this artillery adjunct applied to the anvil 
chorus of "Trovatore," or to the refrain of "The Star 
Spangled Banner"— 

"The rocket's red glare, 
The bombs bursting in air," etc. 

Some passages may have been blurred a bit by the 
notes of the back rows of singers, a quarter of a mile 
or so distant from the front firing-line, getting there a 
few bars behind time; but the ensemble was grand 
and stunning. 

The two star features of the occasion were the 
singing of Mme. Pescha Leutner, the heroic German 
soprano, and the performances of the foreign bands. 
Mme. Leutner's magnificent voice completely filled 



198 REMINISCENCES OF 

the vast auditorium; and in one solo she sang a clear, 
genuine high G. It created a sensation, and everybody 
declared she couldn't have done it but for her well- 
known and strict attention to the laws of high-G-ne. — 
Pardon. 

But I have reserved the biggest and best for the 
last. The French Day ! It is a memory for a lifetime. 
The foreign bands engaged for the festival, in addi- 
tion to the American contingent, were: Godfrey's 
Grenadier Band from England; the Emperor's German 
band, and the celebrated band of the Garde Repub- 
licain, from Paris. Each had its own day set apart. 
As they came to the front, they would play various 
national airs, always to thunderous applause. 

On the French Day, the public was wrought up to 
the highest pitch of expectancy. The Battle of Sedan 
had been lately fought and lost. The German army 
had entered Paris. In contrast to the magnanimity 
of our own General Grant when he met the chivalrous 
but fallen Lee at Appomattox, the German conquerors 
had inflicted upon the proud French what seemed the 
needless humiliation of marching around the Arc de 
Triomphe. 

Every heart was beating in sympathy as the red 
pantaloons came swinging down to the front. Wild 
applause greeted them. Then the stillness was in- 
tense, as every eye and ear kept on the alert for the 
first movement of the conductor's baton. "The 
Marseillaise," or, perhaps, the complimentary intro- 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 199 

duction of "Hail Columbia" or "The Star Spangled 
Banner," was what the multitude expected. 

Instead, to their unspeakable surprise and delight, 
out rolled the opening bars of "John Brown's Body" — 
the eloquent old slave-tune to which Julia Ward Howe 
wrote her splendid "Battle Hymn of the Republic": 

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!" 

The effect was instantaneous. The entire audience 
as well as the choristers, sprang to their feet, and 
leaped upon chairs, settees and benches. Hats, canes 
and umbrellas were frantically waved and flung into 
the air. The whole assemblage was a mass of whirling 
enthusiasts. Every handkerchief was a waving flag, 
every voice a clarion or a megaphone, shouting 
"Hurrah!" and "Bravo!" and everybody laughed, 
cried and cheered in the same breath. It was a demon- 
stration "to beat the band." 

The Frenchmen were for a moment paralyzed with 
wonder, and almost swept off their feet. Then they 
pulled themselves together and completed the piece, 
only to have it redemanded with a tidal-wave of en- 
thusiasm, while twice twenty thousand voices joined 
in like the tuned diapason of Niagara. 

The remainder of their program was punctuated 
with cyclones of applause. When it finally ended with 
the "Marseillaise," there was a general rhapsody of 
tear-shedding, hand-shaking, and embracing. Every- 
body felt that it was an emotional crisis not to be 



200 REMINISCENCES OF 

experienced twice in a lifetime, and an unforgettable 
illustration of the fact that one touch of patriotic 
sentiment makes the whole world kin. 

In the meantime, however, my development was 
going on regardless of greater things. 

What was optimistically called by managerial license 
an "operatic cantata" had its inception at this period. 
It was a mongrel, nondescript affair, compounded of 
gush, nonsense, and impossible scenery, and entitled 
"The Haymakers." 

"The Haymakers," produced at "great expense" 
(nigh unto a hundred dollars), was the work of a farmer, 
both in music and in scenario. The "action" consisted 
of a number of chorus men, supposed to be mowing in 
a hay-field, swinging imaginary scythes, one behind 
another. Had the implements been real, only the 
last man at the rear of the procession could possibly 
have survived, as all those who preceded would cer- 
tainly have had their legs amputated, in striking 
illustration of the Biblical metaphor, "All flesh is 
grass." 

After the cantata had been launched in Boston, it 
was booked for a road tour in the agricultural districts. 
I was lured into it for the leading role, by the offer of 
a sum of money which I had not the moral or financial 
strength to refuse. 

The book called for two farmer's daughters, soprano 
and contralto, and two hired men, tenor and bass, to 
fall in love with them, and incidentally to engage in 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 201 

a series of musical mix-ups, such as duos, trios and 
quartettes. 

Last, but not least, there was my own part, that of 
Snipkins, a city youth unfamiliar with the country and 
its ways. I was the sort of chap that came into the 
village seated beside the Yankee driver on the box of 
the old stage, rubbering about at the landscape, until 
the rustic Jehu remarked: "Say, I s'pose if I should 
go daown to Boston, I'd gawp araound same as yew 
do up here?" 

At any rate "The Haymakers" as far as its record of 
endurance and prosperity was concerned, was insig- 
nificant. Its influence upon the musical spirit of the 
age would hardly be sufficient to justify a reference in 
these memographs, except for the fact that it marked 
my initial experience in the operatic line, and might 
so be properly rung in as an "abstract and brief chron- 
icle of our time." 

The next operatic step, in which I began to get a 
real foothold in that difficult field was when I got an 
engagement for the premier role in a quartette opera, 
written and composed by a leading musician, who 
enjoyed the further advantage of being himself a 
director of a theatrical orchestra. Two angels, re- 
spectively tenor and baritone, hovered about the enter- 
prise. The prima donna was a young lady then in her 
budding promise as a debutante — Miss Julia Gaylord, 
who subsequently gained enviable reputation as a 
member of Carl Rosa's company, in London. 



202 REMINISCENCES OF 

The two Cadis, in our piece, were practically two 
types of the modern "grafter" — a word which was 
not coined until after the person or thing exemplifying 
it had been extant for many years. Thinly disguised 
as stage Turks, this pair of worthies watched each 
other vigilantly in matters of sentiment and business, 
during the day, but made common cause when there 
was a passing wayfarer to be robbed under the shelter- 
ing cloak of night. 

Everybody saw, or thought they recognized in these 
two Cadis a family likeness to a couple of famous 
contemporary financiers whose names are to this daj 7 
a household word. They "took things" easily, such as 
railroads, franchises, and small aggregations of business 
capital. 

There is not much to relate about the two operatic 
Cadis. They did very well in Boston and never got 
stranded in any out-of-the-way one-night stands — 
for the reason that our company was never sent for- 
ward to try the tender mercies of the road. Managers 
shied at booking the play for various reasons that 
appeared to us puerile and insufficient, but which, 
combined, amounted to something tragical. 

I may not have realized it at the time, but my light 
opera habit was slowly and surely becoming chronic, 
incurable. 

It is perhaps superfluous to say that I am fond of 
music. I love it in every form and exemplification, 
from the simplest melody to the mighty works of the 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



203 



TEMPLE, - PORTSMOUTH, 
TUESDAY & WEBKESBAY EVEJVIXGS, 

March 24th and 26t)i, 1808 
jKr 3 No postponement on account of the weather. 43 



AN OPERATIC CANTATA, 

Illustrating the 

Realities and Enjoyments of Rural Life, 

Will be performed by the PORTSMOUTH 

PJQLHAUQNIG SOCIETY, 

Assisted by 

Mr. H.C. Barnabee, 

Who on tbis occasion will siog a large number of 

; n^ew com i c soistg-s. , 

IMPERSONATIONS 1 
MARY, Farmer's Daughter, ... Miss Virginia Bufl'orJ. 
ANNA. " " ...-■- Mrs. Walton, 

KATE, Dairv Maid. .... Miss Athena Hatch- 

THE FARMER, - Mr. Jerome C. Butler, 

WILLIAM, 1st Assistant, Mr. Solon Walton. 

JOHN. 2nd Assistant, .... Mr. Wingate N. Ilsley. 

sNIPKINS. a City Youth, unused to the country, Mr. Barnabcti. 



TRIO. Mrs. L. E. Martin. Mrs. Walton and Miss Hattie M. Rem- 
ick. — "When Wandering o'er the Deep," 1 and CHORUS: "Horn,*, 
Sweet Home." 

ECHO QUARTETTE, Mrs. J. C. Plummer and Miss Kemick; 

"ssrs. E. B. Guodall and D. C. Smith. 

QUARTETTE- 'Yet fear not we," with CHORUS, "Shrouded i- 
il.e Sun." Miss Hatch and Mrs. Maloon ; Messrs, Ttvuuas S. Nowell 
and Albert A. Fernald. 

IVIr. E. A. TIITON, 



Director. 
Accompanist 



«T THE ORIGINAL SCENERY, COSTUMES AND STAGE 
APPARATUS necessary to the moat complete rendering of thii 
■ plendid and very Popular Cantata, nave been procured at great ex 
pense by lie Society. 



TICKETS 



35 Cents. 



To be had at the usual places, of th<- ni':iubor» of tho Socioty. 
id at the Door. LIBRETTOS. 10 Cents. 

DOORS open at half-past 6. Performance to commence prompt 
*t half-past 7. . 



204 REMINISCENCES OF 

masters — though I lay no claim whatever to an exact 
knowledge, either technical or theoretical. 

I once asked a distinguished lady musician who 
could transcribe an orchestral score for the piano at 
sight, if there were not a lot of humbug and affectation 
in the way some people rave over the more difficult 
and intricate forms of music when it is supposed to be 
the proper thing to do so. She answered: 

"Yes, undoubtedly. Now, I myself, love to sit at 
the piano and study and vanquish a labyrinthine maze 
of difficulties, as a mathematician would work out a 
problem, or a detective unravel a plot— just to see 
what amazing puzzles a great composer can construct 
out of those eight notes, and still be within the laws of 
harmony. But, Mr. Barnabee, I give you my solemn 
word that I could not be hired to go to a concert-hall 
and listen to it!" 

From that day to this, I have always accorded 
myself the proud privilege of liking what I like, when 
and how I like it. If I don't like it, I like to say so; 
and I am even tolerant enough, I may say, to allow 
others to apply the same rule to my own modest 
efforts. 

I have written the foregoing for the encouragement 
of those cautious and retiring souls who are afraid 
to have opinions or to say their taste is their own, for 
fear of clashing with others who claim to have^been 
educated up toMt. 

Once I had a criticism right from the shoulder which 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 205 

I am not likely to forget. I was up in the rural dis- 
tricts, visiting the lady of my choice, and she took an 
ingenious pride in trotting me out as a vocalist, for 
the admiration and wonder of the neighbors. Among 
those who came to see the show were an old farmer 
and his wife, whose acquaintance with music had been 
limited to "Old Hundred" and similar sacred tunes. 
They came dressed in their most painful finery, and 
sat bolt upright while I intoned a dramatic aria in 
my most impressive style, working myself up to a fine 
frenzy of voice and action at the close. I saw that I 
had them going. When I had finished, the old fellow 
slowly drew a red bandanna handkerchief out of his 
coat-tail pocket, and mopping his brow, handed me 
this: 

"I swaow, I sweat for ye!" 

To resume: Loving everything and everybody con- 
nected with the cultivation of the divine art, I must 
confess that my personal predilections are in favor of 
a contralto voice, as a plummet wherewith to sound 
the depths of the heart; a violoncello, as the instru- 
mental counterpart of the human voice; a full or- 
chestra, as conveying the noblest and most vital 
expression of heavenly harmonies grand and uplifting; 
and — because I can join in with the pent-up energies 
of my song — I write last, but by no means least, a 
male choir of trained voices. 

All this is but the "prologue to the swelling theme" 
for the real object of the present chapter — namely, 



206 REMINISCENCES OF 

to mention the part and pride I took in the formation 
of the Apollo Club of Boston. 

It was in the month of June, 1871, that Messrs. 
John N. Danforth, John H. Stickney and a Mr. Lee 
discussed a plan for forming in Boston a club of about 
fifty male singers. Its first meeting took place on 
Wednesday evening, June 21, between thirty and 
forty of those united being present. Meetings were 
held weekly throughout the summer, devoted partly 
to business under the chairmanship of Mr. A. Parker 
Browne, and partly to practice under the direction of 
Mr. Sprague, Dr. Langmaid and Mr. Stickney. At 
the sixth meeting of the Club, Mr. B. J. Lang was 
elected Conductor of the organization. 

In December, 1871, the first formal concert was 
given. The members appeared in four concerts each 
winter, usually at Music Hall, and each concert was 
repeated at least once. The programmes were neces- 
sarily largely vocal, and rendered by members who 
were either business or professional men, but often 
included some of the leading church singers, some of 
whom later attained fame in lyric drama. Occasion- 
ally a full orchestral accompaniment to an important 
piece and nearly always a prominent soloist, either 
vocal or instrumental, would assist in the formal 
concerts. 

The success of this organization was so pronounced 
and so rapid, artistically as well as socially, that it 
found imitators all over the country. I have heard 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 207 

them in various cities of the United States, and there 
are societies of similar character in foreign lands; 
but I have yet to find the precision of ensemble and 
general effectiveness that ours attained under the 
zealous and accomplished conductorship of B. J. 
Lang. 

It was to me an unfailing source of satisfaction and 
delight during the years of its rise and progress. 
Devotion to its rehearsals and concerts was not merely 
a duty, but a joy; and my regret was poignant when 
I had to give them up at the imperative call of other 
interests, and leave behind the friends who have 
remained friends ever since. At one of the Apollo 
concerts within the past few years, I was an invited 
guest; and though the absence of many a well-remem- 
bered face caused a pang, the singing was of the old- 
time sort, and was so infectious that I could scarcely 
refrain from "j'inin' in." 

Among the soloists who have assisted at concerts 
during the past forty years have been David Bispham, 
Pol Plancon, Giuseppe Campanari, Myron Whitney, 
H. Evan Williams, Emilio de Gogorza, G willy m Miles, 
Johanna Gadski, Lillian Blauvelt, Marie Brema, 
Anito Rio, Mary Hissem de Moss and other vocalists 
of renown. Such instrumentalists as Franz Kneisel, 
Timothee Adamowski, Maude Powell, Marie Nichols, 
Carl Ondricek, Joseph Hofmann, Mme. Szumowska 
and Anton Hekking have also assisted at various 
concerts. 



208 REMINISCENCES OF 

I am still an active, though retired, member, and 
venture to hope that in the not too distant future I 
may return to the city of my adoption, make applica- 
tion to the music committee, be found qualified, take 
my place among the basses, and with the rest of the 
old boys, sing once more to the "Sons of Art." 






Chapter XVIII 



MELODY IN MUSIC 

"Music goes on certain laws and rules; man did not make the laws of music, 
he has only found them out, and if he be self-willed and break them, there is an 
end of music instantly." — Ludwig Van Beethoven. 

PROBABLY the severest arraignment of the 
person with a vacuum on the subject of music 
is found in the words of Lorenzo in the fifth 
act of "The Merchant of Venice": 

"The man that hath no music in himself, 
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; 
The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
And his affections dark as Erebus. 
Let no such man be trusted." 

This is a little hard, we'll admit, on the chap who 
is hardly to blame for his ignorance; but Lorenzo 
had no holes in his chapeau, neither did the great 
master William Shakespeare. What an expanse of 
vast ignorance, on the subject, must reside in the 
minds of a large body of men who have proven them- 
selves fit for "treasons, stratagems and spoils," par- 
ticularly the two latter. 

In a few words, I wish to record my unalterable and 
long-cherished conviction that melody is the heart, 

209 



210 REMINISCENCES OF 

brains and soul of music. Harmony may be the thought 
"as expressed in a succession of rhythmical chords, 
and so related together as to form a musical whole, 
having the unit of what is called a musical thought, at 
once pleasing to the ear and characteristic in expres- 
sion"; but melody, pure and simple, is the life-giving 
blood which quickens its flow and sends it on and on 
and forever on. Without it there is nothing but the 
technical and endless repetition and manipulation of 
phrases which leave nothing to remember and will be 
heard again and again without leaving an enduring 
impression. With it the ear and mind are held and 
"lulled with sounds of sweetest melody." 

In all the great symphonies, even the most difficult, 
and orchestral works, there is, nearly always, some 
tunes which render them tolerable to the miscellaneous 
ear and identify them in the mind, so that even Bee- 
thoven's "Fifth Symphony" could be readily recog- 
nized. The same holds true of overtures. Rossini's 
"William Tell" and Wagner's "Tannhauser," and a 
hundred others, are played today and receive the same 
rapturous applause that hailed them in their first 
appearances. And they are all questions of remem- 
bered melodies. 

How about the operas? The English examples — 
"The Bohemian Girl," "Fra Diavolo"— in its English 
translation — composed nearly a hundred years ago, 
are as fresh as when they came from the mind and 
pen of the composers. "I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 211 



K-\ 



Halls," "ThefHeart Bowed Down," "Then You'll 
Remember Me," and the melodies of "Fra Diavolo," 
which adequately express the situation, draw the 
well -filled houses and the applause as in days of 
yore. 

Auber, the composer of "Fra Diavolo," remembered 
the power of Melody by putting one of the world's 
best with another opera, and the composer of "La 
Dame Blanche" saved its life, for many years, with 
"Robin Adair." 

"O Promise Me" was a factor in the success of 
"Robin Hood." It was taken from an old Italian 
melody, known and sung by every peasant in that 
lovely land of music. It is said it was unconsciously 
plagiarized by Reginald De Koven. At all events, it 
was immortalized by the late Jessie Bartlett Davis. 
In the nineteen hundred times that we played "Robin 
Hood," I never neglected to go down into the first 
entrance and listen to that impressive voice, now 
forever hushed in this earthly sphere, roll out the 
appealing words "O Promise Me, O Promise Me." 

"Fatinitza" retained its popularity for years by its 
singable tunes and brilliant action. "The Serenade," 
with its haunting air, "I love thee, I adore thee, Oh, 
my heart's life and soul all are thine," "The Angelus," 
"Woman, lovely woman," Alice Nielsen's "Cupid 
and I," "Dreaming, dreaming, talking in my sleep" 
was a score of surpassing loveliness; and Helen Ber- 
tram came very near resurrecting "Rob Roy" from 



212 REMINISCENCES OF 

its untimely fate with "My hame is where the heather 
blooms, the heather blooms sae fresh and fair." 

And what about grand opera? "Don Giovanni," 
one of the oldest and most classical, holds its interest 
today with "Batti, batti" and "La ci darem." Rossini 
was a devotee of melody, and Gounod will never die. 
Verdi, however, outranks them all — his "II Trovatore," 
"Rigoletto," "La Traviata," by the drawing power of 
their ever fresh melodies, his "Aida," by the simpler 
beauty of its melodies and the dramatic power of its 
musical conception. 

The dramatic fitness of music to a situation wedded 
to a melody, that goes straight to the heart, is the only 
form of opera that endures, not for days but for cen- 
turies. And there you are! It is just the same with 
songs. They must have a defined melody or they will 
languish and die on the shelves of music stores, while 
the old favorites will come up smiling. 

If there is any man who would not like to hear 
"The Last Rose of Summer" (that is an old air origin- 
ally called "Oh, Bay of Dublin") once a day for the 
remainder of his life, I should think he was on the 
road to "treasons, stratagems and spoils." To hear 
Marie Stone sing it in the opera of "Martha," or to 
hear my old friend Arbuckle play it on his muted 
cornet was to be entranced. Christine Nilsson, the 
incomparable, made no mistake in her first tour through 
the country in choosing "Suwanee River" for a con- 
tribution to the programs. She sang it as one who 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 213 

could sing it, and won all hearts. I first heard her sing 
the oratorio of "The Messiah" and I have never 
wished to hear it since. I do not wish my memory of 
her to be infringed upon. She rendered "I know that 
my Redeemer liveth" as if she did know it, and so 
impressed and convinced her hearers. 

I once heard Sims Reeves, the great English tenor, 
rouse an audience of twelve thousand people, at the 
Alexandria Palace, into a perfect rhapsody of enthusi- 
asm with his renditions of "The Bay of Biscay O," and 
if there was ever a concert of any importance in which 
Adelina Patti appeared and did not sing "Home 
Sweet Home" it has escaped the memory of the oldest 
inhabitant. 

The "Battle Hymn of the Republic" written by 
Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, of blessed memory, and sung 
to the tune of "John Brown's Body" would arouse 
any audience to an enthusiasm of patriotism; and 
"Dixie" will excite Northern and Southern audiences 
to uncontrollable frenzy. 

Childhood will respond to old melodies. I once 
sat at dinner in Denver in company with the Governor 
of the state and other notables. The daughter of the 
hostess, a little girl five years of age, was permitted 
to come to the table, by reason of her youthful and 
unpremeditated wit. I asked her mother if she would 
not like to have the little one come to a Saturday 
matinee of "Robin Hood," and she answered, "Oh, 
yes, she never was in the theatre but once and that 



214 REMINISCENCES OF 

was to see and hear Denman Thompson. The only 
thing she remembered was Denman coming through 
the door at the cry of "Fire!" in his night attire, and 
with his trunk on his shoulder, and the singing by the 
boys of "The Old Oaken Bucket." 

"Oh," said I, to the little one, "do you know the 
'Old Oaken Bucket'?" 

"Oh, yes," said she, "I sing it." 

"Do you?" said I, as I started to sing one of the 
stanzas. 

Having finished, the child ventured to say that she 
didn't sing it in the way I presented it. "Oh, don't 
you," said I, "Pray how do you sing it?" 

"Oh," said she very reprovingly, "I don't sing at 
the taller 

The company collapsed and the comedian joined, for 
I always did enjoy a joke on myself. 

When my dear mother was eighty-six years old, I 
went to Portsmouth, N. H., to see her one day and, as 
it happened, it was the last time I ever saw her alive. 
She asked me to take a walk with her, which I did. 
When we returned to her home, she said, "I have got 
something I want you to sing for me." She went up 
stairs and presently came down carrying one yellow, 
faded leaf of an old song book. The song was the old 
and beautiful one, "Love's Young Dream," which 
she had kept sacred through all the years and which 
I sang to her. That was a remembrance of an old 
melody which brought its tribute of tears. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 215 

When Alice Nielsen was a member of our company 
(The Bostonians), she was devoted to myself and wife, 
and nearly every night, after a late supper, she would 
come to our room, take a seat in a rocking chair, and 
sing to us Irish and "Coon" melodies, as if she were 
trying to realize Longfellow's beautiful words: 

"And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away." 

She has now come into her own and is singing in 
Grand Opera with great and deserved success, for 
which I am very glad, but I shall remember the "Little 
Alabama Coon" long after "La Boheme," "Madam 
Butterfly" and the like, are slumbering in unremem- 
bered silence. 

The foregoing are brief and simple tributes to the 
power of melody. I could go on in an unlimited way, 
but it would transcend the limits of this publication. 
Let me conclude with a repetition : Melody is the heart, 
soul and brains of Music. Furthermore, Melody was 
never made or compounded, it was or is born and 
discovered, and happy should be the composer who 
has discovered its abiding place, or into whose soul 
it has stolen unperceived. 



Chapter XIX 



ARE YOU A MASON? 

I BECOME A MASON. — INTRODUCING MUSIC INTO MA- 
SONIC CEREMONIES. THE ANCIENT AND HONORABLE 

ARTILLERY COMPANY. — VISIT OF RICHMOND NO. II 
ENCAMPMENT. 

"Friendship's like musick: two strings tuned alike 
Will both stirre, though only one you strike." 

— Quarles. 

LIKE my father before me, I early embraced the 
^ tenets of Freemasonry, and became one of the 
brethren of the mystic tie, passing through all 
the stages, exemplifying before the Grand Lodge por- 
tions of its work, its acknowledged best delineator until 
I reached the Thirty-third degree of the Scottish Rite. 
That is where I still stand, at the present writing. 

Whether I had not gained that point of goodness 
which commanded an entrance to its portals, I am 
unable to chronicle, but I am not without hope that 
I may yet be permitted to witness its ceremonies and 
wear its regalia. 

I am glad to say of the institution that if any person 
can live up to the precepts inculcated in its ceremonies 
it can be written of him: "Mark the perfect man, and 
behold the upright!" But I must also observe that the 
impression formed from long experience is strong within 

216 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 217 

me, that the desire and effort to be a man must reside 
in the man himself, rather than in any institution or 
order. "So mote it be." 

"Touching on and appertaining to" these orders, 
and in line with my harmonic happenings, I may men- 
tion that I, with some other gentlemen, were the 
pioneers in introducing music into the Masonic cere- 
monies to emphasize and accentuate the ritual, and it 
has remained a necessary adjunct ever since. 

We were often called upon to journey afar on special 
occasions, and managed to include some fun on our 
own account. We had for one of our members a gentle- 
man gifted with the most pronounced nasal organs 
I have ever seen. A "blow" from that organ was 
startling, and his snoring a megaphonic sound that 
would murder sleep. We had all sampled him for a 
room-mate, and were willing to be excused next time. 
On one trip to my native home, a new member had 
just been elected, a sententious chap of few words. 
We concluded we would allow him to test the ordeal 
and occupy the room with the nasal trumpet, while 
the other six roomed together. At the dead hour of 
the night we were startled by our door opening and in 
stalked the newly elected in his night garb. He walked 
to the center of the room with ghostly tread, and to 
the other six, sitting up in bed with eyes protruding 
at the apparition, said: "Thunder! Wish you'd come 

and hear this man snore. Never heard such a 

noise in my life." 



218 REMINISCENCES OF 

Serenading was our forte, and oft in the stilly night 
we would sally forth and wind up the evening with 
the gay Sally Lunn and other concomitants of innoc- 
uous mirth. 

A wet blanket was at last thrown on our efforts at 
popularizing open-air nocturnal vocalization, when 
we got into the wrong street and lined up before the 
wrong house. This particular place was dark from 
cellar to garret. We delivered ourselves of several 
choice excerpts of song, when a light appeared in an 
upper window. A sash was violently shoved up, and 
a gruff voice exclaimed: 

"How many are there of you down there?" 

"Eight," shouted a hungry vocalist, with visions of 
a sumptuous spread. 

"Well, take that, and divide it among you!" 

Down came a bucketful of water, and our song died 
a sputtery, gurgling death by drowning. 

In addition to my Masonic affiliations I belonged to 
the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company of 
Boston. To write anything new about this historic 
body would mean either to ransack history or to draw 
upon the imagination. It was of English and colonial 
origin, and with the oldest inhabitant its beginnings 
are a remote tradition. 

In addition to its regular membership of commis- 
sioned and non-commissioned officers of the Massa- 
chusetts regiments, it has a large contingent of those 
compelled to choose between military and jury duty. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



219 



"The military for mine," quoth I, without hesitation 
or struggle. 

When I joined and began to take a deep interest in 
the proceedings, the Ancient and Honorable used to 
hold meetings in the Chauncey Street Church. Its 
music was of the most ordinary character, and as 
antique as flintlocks and powder-horns. I helped to 
change all that, and for years was the only member 
of the choir who wore a uniform and sang solos. 

When the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of 
the company was celebrated, our honored guests from 
Old England were deprived of the pleasure of seeing 
and hearing me in all my glory, as at the eleventh hour 
a "friend of a friend" was clapped into my place as 
leader, while I languished in a plain listener's pew! 

Would not that give you the sensation of a seismic 
disturbance? Still, I forgive them. 

Speaking of Masonic orders reminds me that it was 
fully established that the last organized body which 
moved southward for the friendly conquest of Rich- 
mond, Va., before the outbreak of the Civil War, 
was the De Molay Commandery of Knight Templar, 
of Boston. 

Likewise, the first citizen company that came North 
after the cessation of hostilities, took the Hub by storm, 
received the keys to the city, and marched in amid 
the booming of artillery and flinging out of banners 
on the outer walls, was Richmond No. 2 Encampment, 
the former hosts of our Southern visit. 



220 REMINISCENCES OF 

Boston turned itself loose on this memorable and 
joyous occasion, which spanned several golden days. 
The Sacred Codfish in the old State House smiled 
a welcome; the Common looked uncommonly inviting; 
the Old South Church clanged its happy bell, and the 
antique Cradle of Liberty almost rocked over in its 
glee. 

A military parade, commanded by Gen. Benjamin F. 
Butler in imposing martial array, marched and then 
was reviewed. Broadsides of brotherly eloquence 
were met with rapid fire volleys of love and patriotism. 
The battle in the banquet hall resulted in a complete 
demolition of formidable menu batteries, but no 
greater damage to the army of invaders than that 
recorded in the stanza by a local troubadour of the 
time: 

"To Boston did a Knight repair, 
His armor clean and bright; 
He got a cramp — O when and where? 
Why, in the middle of the Knight." 

And whenever the soul-stirring drum rolled out the 
"retreat" coffee was served with the roll! 

There was a Harbor excursion, with a stop at Deer 
Island to enable the first reconstruction Governor of 
Virginia to talk to the lads of the Reform School. 

And then, the shore dinner — where the festive clam, 
purged by patriotic fire, opened its burglar-proof shell 
and gave up its luscious life on the altar of renewed 
friendship; where the crustaceous lobster, boiling with 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 221 

enthusiasm, got red with excitement, threw off its 
coat, turned cold from exposure, was dreadfully cut 
up at the idea of salad, but finally yielded to the 
sacrifice when oil was poured on the troubled vinegar, 
and soon felt quite at (mayonn) aise. 

The exercises finally closed on Bunker Hill, that 
sacred shrine of all Americans. As the Knights were 
entering Bunker Hill Park, I walked arm-in-arm with 
a Southern comrade, who expressed feelingly his 
emotions on approaching the historic spot. His own 
eloquence was reinforced by the declamation of Daniel 
Webster's immortal words at the laying of the monu- 
ment's cornerstone: 

"Let it rise till it meets the sun in his coming. Let the 
first beam of morning gild its top, and the last rays of parting 
day linger and play upon its summit." 

"You must appreciate the privilege of often coming 
to muse in such a place as this," he said to me. 

"My friend," I replied when he had finished, "I 
appreciate, applaud and sympathize with all you have 
said; yet I must be true to my New England conscience 
and with pain and humiliation confess that though I 
have lived for more than twenty years within sight of 
yonder shaft, this is the first time I've ever climbed 
the mound or entered within the enclosure." 

He gasped, smiled faintly and — then the band 
played. 

When the Knights were tired out with as many 
days' hospitality as they could stand, we sent them to 



222 REMINISCENCES OF 

the protecting care of that Providence which is in 
Rhode Island, there to discuss Rocky Points and re- 
ceive new assurances of brotherly love. Finally tired 
and worn in body, but vivified in heart and soul and 
mind, they wandered back to the grand old "mother 
of Presidents," there to rehearse the glories of the 
occasion, and under the noble and inspiring example 
of their beloved leader, General Lee, to build up the 
waste places and to fulfil a high resolve to promote 
in every way the love and harmony of a great and 
united people. 



Chapter XX 



DICKENS, THACKERAY AND OTHER 
WORTHIES 

CHARLES DICKENS VISITS AMERICA. — THACKERAY IS 
BANQUETED. THE INIMITABLE BARNES. — JOHN STET- 
SON AND MIKE DOHERTY. — HON. RUFUS CHOATE, "THE 
INVINCIBLE." — GEN. BENJAMIN F. BUTLER, CARL ZER- 
RAHN, "THE FORGOTTEN," AND CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 

"We all change, but that's -with time! Time does his work honestly, and I 
don't mind him. A fig for Timet Use him well and he's a hearty fellow, and 
scorns to have you at a disadvantage." — Charles Dickens. 

TWO events which deserve at least a passing 
notice in this record occurred in the decade of 
the sixties. In my childhood, boyhood and 
earliest manhood, I do not remember of being much 
of a story reader. Indeed, children's literature was 
very much in embryo in that day and generation, and 
in fact children were not given a tithe of that attention 
which obtains in these progressive and happier times. 
From the old-fashioned wooden cradle which had 
descended from a former generation and had gotten 
worn and rickety in the journey, to the entrance to 
manhood or the "coming out," so to speak, which 
happened in the most informal manner, it was a sort 
of go-as-you-please life, modified only by a mild 

223 



224 REMINISCENCES OF 

parental discipline or the restraints imposed by a strict 
and regular attendance at Sunday School. 

The first book, barring the "American Reader," 
with its mild tales of '"Twas Saturday night, and the 
lonely widow of the pine cottage sat by her blazing 
faggots" pattern, of which I have any recollection, 
was "Nicholas Nickleby," by Charles Dickens. 

With what voracity I devoured its wondrous pages! 
From that time forward I was a most devoted admirer 
and insatiable reader of Boz's incomparable books. To 
me, he was and ever is the great master of storytellers. 

In addition to his dramatic character-drawing, his 
unflagging wit and humor, and the pathos to which it 
is so nearly allied, his vivid descriptive writing, there 
is always running through his narrative the under- 
lying motive to expose sham and make it ashamed, to 
hold up to scorn every ignoble attribute in high and 
low life; and, evinced in gentlest words, his love and 
tenderness toward suffering humanity. I never in my 
life met a peculiar or pronounced character that I 
did not at once wish that Dickens could see him or 
her, and then describe them. 

To be sure, some resentment was cherished because 
of his strictures upon sundry habits, manners and 
customs of our beloved land — a few of which have 
remained just as he saw them. But I was always 
broad enough to admit that we deserved the criticism, 
especially in view of the fact that Dickens never spared 
his own country or countrymen. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 225 

With such enthusiasm for his genius, it is not to be 
wondered that I looked forward with intense eager- 
ness to his visit to Boston, on his second American tour 
(1868-1869), to seeing the man and hearing him read 
from his own works. I had that pleasure twice. 

The first time was under most favorable circum- 
stances, when he gave the "Christmas Carol" on Christ- 
mas eve, December 24, 1868, at the Tremont Temple. 

As he stepped out upon the platform — an energetic, 
nervous figure of medium size, with grizzled hair and 
beard — I was simply beside myself with pleasurable 
excitement. Dickens' reading was the most extraor- 
dinary tour deforce of its kind that I ever saw or heard. 
Long ere that memorable evening was finished, I felt 
convinced that he was as great an actor as writer. 

With no adjuncts of scenery or costume, in conven- 
tional evening dress and white tie, with the simple 
reading-desk and gas-lamp which he always carried 
with him on his travels, and a red screen for a back- 
ground, he made every character and situation stand 
out in sharpest counterfeit presentment. We recog- 
nized the various dramatis personae, and knew what 
they were going to say, before Dickens uttered a word 
of their speeches. Truly, it was a great evening. 

The next time I heard him was in the following April, 
shortly before his return to England. He was greeted 
with warmer demonstrations, if possible, than on the 
occasion of his former readings. At Tremont Temple, 
this time, a characteristic and charming episode 



226 REMINISCENCES OF 

occurred. His reading-stand had been prettily wreathed 
in flowers by some of the ladies of Boston. In pleased 
surprise, Dickens acknowledged this attention with 
inimitable grace, in something like these words: 

"Before allowing Dr. Marigold to relate his story 
in his own peculiar way, I hesitate to kiss the kind, 
fair hands, unknown, which have so beautifully deco- 
rated my table this evening." 

When the time came to say "Good-night," the great 
English writer uttered a most tender "Farewell." I 
shall never forget him. Long after the lights were 
out, I felt that one of the chief desires of my life had 
been gratified and my most sanguine expectations 
more than realized. 

A reminiscence of Dickens without a similar one 
of his great contemporary, William Makepeace 
Thackeray, who visited this country on the same mis- 
sion, would be thought injustice. I am not prepared to 
write understandingly about him, having read only 
one of his books and never having heard him lecture, 
but I remember that he was everywhere received with 
distinguished courtesy and hospitality and created a 
most favorable impression, especially from those who 
accorded him the higher place. It may be safely 
stated, however, that his partisans were less numerous 
and less demonstrative than those of Dickens. 

One of Thackeray's Boston experiences was de- 
cidedly unique. That good town, which shortly before 
had lionized Paul Morphy, the chess-player, also, with 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 227 

admirable impartiality, though doubtful discrimination, 
leaned forward toward a mountebank of Websterian 
mien who gave alleged imitations of the noted men of 
the time. So inflated did this individual become with 
the idea of his own impressiveness, that he actually 
approached the author of "The Four Georges" with a 
proposition to take his place on the platform, deliver 
his lecture with superior elocutionary effect, and then 
divide the gate receipts! 

Thackeray's reply is on oral record. It was brief 
and to the point, and for directness and vehemence, 
has not since been equalled in Boston. 

So far as I know, Thackeray did not indulge in any 
criticisms of America or Americans. He did, however, 
comment upon our noble native bivalve, the Saddle 
Rock oyster. 

He was being dined and wined at the Tremont 
House, when his eyes chanced to notice a dish of shell 
oysters of huge dimensions. 

"What d'ye do with 'em?" said he to his next 
neighbor. 

"Why, cat 'em." "How?" and he showed him. 

Thackeray looked at them askance, but finally 
seized a fork, raised it to his mouth, and after a series 
of facial contortions succeeded in gulping down a big 
bivalve. 

"Well, how do you feel?" asked his neighbor. 

"Feel?" ejaculated the author of "Vanity Fair," 
"Feel? I feel as if I had swallowed a baby!" 



228 REMINISCENCES OF 

My capricious recollection only goes back to the 
fifties, so far as Boston is concerned. 

Those were the days of Barnes — Isaac O. Barnes, of 
whom there were more popular anecdotes extant, when 
I entered the contest, than of any vocal competitor. 

The history of Boston, or of any Bostonian of the 
latter half of the Nineteenth Century, would be 
incomplete without bringing in Barnes. 

He was United States marshal here for thirty years 
or more. Being of the race that "seldom die" and 
"never resign," he hung on to the office for that length 
of time, through the respective administrations of 
various opposing parties, simply by making good 
guesses on the chances of affairs, and changing his 
politics at the proper time. 

Barnes' individuality was marked. He was no 
sylph. He weighed three hundred pounds and talked 
in a piping falsetto voice. His delivery of ordinary 
language would upset the gravity of anyone not 
prepared for it. With his play of wit, genial glow of 
humor, and occasional brilliant flashes of repartee, he 
was irresistible. Withal, there was a big heart behind 
his still, small voice, and a quaint philosophy in his 
most foolish sayings. 

At a time when the Fugitive Slave law was in full 
operation, and Boston was the "underground" station 
for runaways hiking Canada-wards, Barnes sympa- 
thized strongly with the runner, yet at the same time 
had to put up a large bluff at enforcing the law. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 229 

On one occasion, when in a tight place to explain 
his inertia in the matter of a flagrant case, Barnes 
assumed the air of one whose confidence had been woe- 
fully abused, and said: 

"I heard last night there was a black concealed in 
Joy Street. I went up there and found him, and gave 
him notice that I would be around to arrest him next 
morning at 10 o'clock. He promised to be there. 
When I arrived at the appointed hour, he had gone. 
D — n 'em! You never can believe a word they say!" 

He hated anything in the nature of sham, fakes and 
show-offs. Funerals were his pet aversion. But when 
a certain near and dear friend of his passed away, he 
felt it his duty to attend the obsequies. The name of 
the deceased was Kidder, but his intimates called him 
"Kid" for short. 

"Kid's" family were divided in their religious beliefs, 
attending churches of three different denominations. 
In order that there should be no chances taken as to 
the ultimate destination of "Kid," all three ministers 
of these respective churches were invited to participate 
in the funeral ceremonies. The result was that the 
services were unconsciously prolonged. 

It was a hot day, and Barnes sat there fuming, his 
countenance covered simultaneously with disgust and 
perspiration. When at last the pall-bearers moved 
down the aisle to take charge of the casket and remains, 
Barnes turned to a man who sat next to him, and said: 

"D'you know Kid?" 



230 REMINISCENCES OF 

The man solemnly bowed in the affirmative. 

"Then I s'pose you know he was dead sot against 
all such nonsense as this. Why, if he'd had the running 
of this here funeral, he'd had himself underground 
two hours ago!" 

It may be gathered from the foregoing that Mr. 
Barnes was inclined to habitual irreverence, tinged to 
a degree with profanity. These traits must have been 
acquired after he came to Boston, for in his native 
town, in Maine, he was regarded as a model of piety, 
and a near-saint. Boys starting out to seek their for- 
tunes in this naughty world were mostly sent to Barnes 
for his good advice and blessing. 

On a certain occasion one of Barnes' own nephews 
called to see him, and asked for the usual send-off. 
Uncle Isaac took the boy aside and gave him a long 
moral talk anent the duties and responsibilities of 
youth. After he had concluded the homily, and given 
its youthful beneficiary a few moments in which to 
allow the discourse to soak in, he added the following 
epilogue : 

"Well, Charlie, if you do just as I have told you, 
you will probably wind up in Heaven at last. But 
you'll have a poor time here." 

Convalescent from an illness which had overtaken 
him in Washington, D. C, Barnes started to return 
home by easy stages. As chance would have it, at the 
very same time the remains of the Arctic explorer, 
Dr. Elisha Kent Kane, were being transferred to their 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 231 

final resting place. The ceremonies attendant upon 
that solemnity were elaborate and long drawn out; 
and honorary pall-bearers infested the cars, hotels and 
principal stopping-places along the line. 

"Just my infernal luck," muttered the big Bos- 
tonian, as he found himself neglected and turned down 
everywhere on account of the belated honors which 
were being heaped upon the distinguished "dead 
ones." 

Sick, tired and disgruntled, after slights and rebuffs 
innumerable, poor Barnes at length boarded a car 
which happened to be empty. He had scarcely be- 
stowed his ponderous bulk in comfort, when an im- 
portant individual wearing a white rosette double the 
size of a prize chrysanthemum on the lapel of his coat, 
bustled in and said: 

"Here, you! this car is reserved for mourners." 

"Mourners for what?" inquired Barnes. 

"Why, for Dr. Kane." 

"Dr. Kane be blowed!" exploded the invalid, as he 
tumbled off the train and into a convenient hack that 
stood in waiting. 

After the funeral procession had gone on its way, the 
driver of the vehicle asked him where he should take 
him. The reply came, in a weak, disgusted treble 
voice : 

"I don't give a whoop, only take me where I'll 
never meet the blankety-blank remains of Dr. Kane!" 

Another worthv who inhabited Boston about the 



232 REMINISCENCES OF 

same time gained in devious ways quite a reputation. 
John Stetson was his name. 

Stetson began his variegated career as a gymnast 
and sprinter, followed the circus awhile, tried running 
a bucket shop, became a vaudeville or "variety" im- 
presario at the Howard Athenaeum, and finally found 
his true metier in elevating the "drammer" as sole 
proprietor and manager of the Globe Theater, Boston, 
and lessee of that magnificent ruin known as Booth's 
Theatre, in New York. Saturnine humor, a queer 
basilisk eye, a malaprop vocabulary, and some sensa- 
tional ideas as to stage business, were among Stetson's 
distinguishing attributes. 

He insisted on having more girls put into a tableau 
vivant of the "Three Graces." In a similar spirit of 
enterprise, when he contemplated putting on a passion 
play at his theater, he undertook to forestall criticism 
by declaring that he would provide "the most reverent 
show that money could secure"; and as for the twelve 
apostles — he'd have forty! 

He had a storeroom at Booth's Theater filled with 
costly bric-a-brac, to be used upon occasion as stage 
properties. One night the room was looted by thieves. 
The next day, a friend who had not heard of this 
mishap, chanced to ask: "Well, John, how are the 
acoustic properties of your theater?" 

"They were all there, all right," replied Stetson; 
"but last night thieves broke in, and stole every d — 
one of them!" There was but one Stetson. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 233 

Another character I remember well was Mike 
Doherty. He was a different stamp of man from 
Stetson, but equally unique in his way. He was the 
political boss of the Irish party in Boston and as 
taciturn as an oyster, but he could control and 
"deliver" votes, just the same. 

One memorable night in Faneuil Hall, when the 
cradle of liberty was being rocked by a swaying multi- 
tude, Mike sat on the front of the platform, smiling 
complacently on his constituents. Lieutenant Gover- 
nor Dorsheimer, of New York, a noted "silver-tongued 
orator" of the time, was there to orate. He arose in 
Olympian majesty, and, with a magnetic wave of his 
hand, began: 

"Fellow-citizens, Faneuil Hall is full tonight" — 

"So's Mike Doherty!" sang out a high-pitched voice 
from the gallery. 

And it was several minutes before the speaker could 
get a fresh start. 

Of Rufus Choate I can say but little, as he lived 
and died before my acquaintance with the city ripened 
into intimate relations, but, from all I can gather, he 
was considered the most powerful advocate of his 
time, and indeed of any time. He was simply invin- 
cible. Anything of a humorous character about a 
man always attracted me first, and I have always 
cherished the following. One of his most prominent 
peculiarities was his penmanship, or rather his lack of 
it. His writings could only be deciphered by an expert, 



234 REMINISCENCES OF 

or an amanuensis who usually attended him. The 
first letter of a word was always written plainly, then 
across the line there followed a zigzag Grecian pattern 
ending with the last letter. On one occasion he was 
sitting in his home office, papers scattered about upon 
the table, examining the pattern of a cornice which 
a skilled mechanic was coming to saw out for him. 
Presently, a messenger from the court came to tell 
him he was wanted. He seized his green bag, stuffed 
his papers into it and hurried to the scene of his labors. 
When his case was called, he looked in his bag for his 
brief and found to his dismay, that, instead of his brief, 
he had taken the pattern of the cornice. Hurrying 
back to his home he found the skilled mechanic, with 
a long piece of thin flat wood, and Mr. Choate's brief 
before him, trying to saw it out. But he won his 
case. 

Benjamin F. Butler, whom I have only noticed as 
in command of the troops at the reception of the Rich- 
mond Commandery, was another celebrity of marked 
individuality. I enjoyed his personal acquaintance 
and remember, with great joy, an all-night session at 
the Revere House, when he, as host, kept the table in 
a roar of applause and laughter, from "dewy eve" 
"till morn." Whatever may be said of his war record, 
as general and diplomat — it was he, I believe, who 
gave us the phrase "contraband of war" for captured 
negroes, and in New Orleans, it was generally admitted, 
on both sides, that he preserved order. He was a 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 235 

most brilliant man and lawyer. I remember a very 
"big hit" he made, while serving in Congress. He 
was speaking, with vehemence, upon some important 
topic, and was being continually peppered with ques- 
tions by a gentleman who enjoyed the soubriquet of 
"Sunset Cox." Butler was plainly annoyed, and pres- 
ently turning upon his antagonist and waving him 
away with his hand, said, "Shoo fly, don't bodder me." 
This brought the house down, and proved the "sun- 
set" of Mr. "Cox." Once, in his own city of Lowell, 
walking along the street, the family butcher in his 
wagon hailed him with, "Mr. Butler, I want to ask 
an opinion." "All right! What is it?" 

"Well, sir, if I go to a man's house to deliver goods, 
and the man's dog jumps into my wagon and gets 
away with two dollars' worth of meat, isn't the dog's 
owner liable?" "Certainly, of course." "Well, sir, 
that's just what happened at yovr house. Your dog 
grabbed meat worth two dollars." "All right," said 
Butler, "you owe me three dollars." "How's that?" 
said the butcher. "Why," said Butler, "easy enough! 
my fee is five dollars for an opinion. My dog stole 
two dollars worth of meat, two from five leaves three, 
doesn't it?" The man paid the money. 

Butler was said to have had the Bible at his tongue's 
end and won many a case with a country jury by his 
apt quotations. 

Another brilliant lawyer was leaving the Court 
House, just after losing a case when Butler was oppos- 



236 REMINISCENCES OF 

ing counsel, and said forcibly " him! that's the 

third time he has beaten me with the Bible!" 

Once he was cross-examining a witness and took a 
seat upon the table. It being the rule that attorneys 
must stand, the Chief Justice reproved him imme- 
diately. Butler swallowed his chagrin and said noth- 
ing. After lunch he was reading a paper in the corridor, 
when the Chief Justice came along, and, no doubt 
wishing to smooth over the occurrence of the forenoon, 
said to him, "Ah! Mr. Butler! reading law, I presume?" 
"No! your honor! merely your honor's opinions." 
This is a very small illustration of Mr. Butler's ready 
and relentless wit. He was a wonderful man and hit 
the bull's-eye every time. 

I have always and deeply felt that my beloved city 
did a great act of injustice in not honoring the memory 
of Carl Zerrahn. He came to this country when quite 
a young man, played first flute in the Germania So- 
ciety, but quickly rose from the ranks, became its 
conductor, and for thirty-five or forty years was the 
leading spirit in all musical happenings in Boston. 
During this lengthy period he was the musical director 
in the first Peace Jubilee, the collector of the great 
chorus in the second Jubilee, the director of the Handel 
and Haydn Society in all its concerts, and the great 
triennial festivals, and in general an indispensable 
factor in orchestral and choral music. The acknowl- 
edged, leader in the New England festivals, particu- 
larly^at^Worcester, he was known and beloved by all. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 237 

When he got tired and worn, he went back to his native 
country, but all of his old friends and comrades were 
gone, and, after a short time, he came back here, only 
to find himself unknown, and — "My God, we are so 
soon forgot. "Tis pity it is, 'tis true." Peace be with 
him! 

Lastly, but by no means the least, comes the name 
of that splendid woman and grand artist, Charlotte 
Cushman— the greatest this country ever knew. The 
peer of all who preceded and followed her, including 
such artists as Siddons, Rachel, Ristori, Janauschek, 
Terry, Bernhardt and Duse! As Lady Macbeth and 
Queen Catherine she had no equal, and as Meg Merri- 
lies in "Guy Mannering" she had no rival. Mr. 
Quincy Kilby, the gentleman who prepared the splen- 
did history of the Boston Theatre, wrote me — "I see 
that Miss Caroline Crawford in her 'Romantic Days 
in Old Boston' has your portrait beside that of Char- 
lotte Cushman, which shows you are considered a 
Boston Institution! I congratulate you." Charlotte 
Cushman was a Bostonian; and I certainly feel 
highly complimented by Miss Crawford, in sending me 
down the centuries by the side of that wonderful 
woman and grandest of artists, Charlotte Cushman! 



Chapter XXI 



A PATCHWORK OF SONG AND STORY 

THE "UNPROTECTED FEMALE." — " ARABELLA." MAKES A 
HIT. — THE CRYING CHILD IN THE GALLERY. 

" The first step in music study should consist in the ability to imitate accu~ 
rately what one hears and to hold such a passage in the memory." — Charles 
Farnsworth. 



A NOTHER instalment on my accident theory 
£^^ developed when I found that I could, single- 
handed, entertain an audience at remunerative 
prices without having to decimate the gate-money to 
pay a supporting company. 

At the close of a concert in the ancient city of 
Newburyport, Massachusetts, an influential lady ap- 
proached me with the offer of an engagement to give 
a programme consisting entirely of myself and my 
specialties. I told her I couldn't think of such a thing. 

"But," she persisted, "If I could pay you alone as 
much as you are now getting for your whole troupe, 
wouldn't that set you to thinking?" 

It did. I agreed to "consider the matter." The 
fact was, that two hundred dollars loomed up before 
my mind's eye like a lighthouse in a fog — for it was 
then the topnotch price — and I was so afraid the 
Lady Croesus would exercise woman's privilege and 

238 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



239 



change her mind, that I decided at once to relieve it 
and her purse at one swoop. 

In all my public appearances I was accustomed to 
"act out" my songs, so that I felt reasonably sure of 
myself for the essential parts of the entertainment. But 
I needed a "vehicle" to drive on with, so as to keep 
the straight road, and to arrive in something like 
schedule time at my destination. 

I prevailed upon my partner in the "Too Late for 
the Train" sketch to write me a poetical prologue 
about an old-fashioned quilting-party, by way of 
leading up to the "Patchwork of Song and Story" 
which I was to furnish. Here are a few of the heroic 
couplets which his pen produced: 

"For your approval here tonight I lay 
A patchwork of song and story, stitched today. 
I aim to please. If I don't make bull's-eyes, 
Then I'm a bad shot and pass up the prize. 
So with your leave, I'll quickly move along, 
If time's a lyre, we'll strike him with a song." 

The Quilt was a mix-up of serious and comic pieces 
in about equal proportions — "The King and the Molly- 
coddle," and "Simon the Cellarer"; "The Dream of the 
Reveller," and "Darius Green and His Flying-Ma- 
chine"; "The Cork Leg," and "Parrhasius," or Poe's 
"The Raven"; "Ethan Spike's Annexation of Cuba"; 

re 

and, for a wind-up, "The Unprotected Female" — my 
first and last appearance in petticoats. 

This last-named sketch was presented to me by 



240 REMINISCENCES OF 

Mrs. Howard Paul, the famous English comedienne 
and prima donna, who created the title role of Offen- 
bach's "Grande Duchesse" in the Anglicized version. 
Mrs. Paul had no thought of my personally doing 
that formidable unprotected female in the sketch, 
but I did — it was another of my little surprises — and 
it is with pride that I record that the feminine portion 
of my audiences stood for the caricature, even to the 
smoothing of my bonnet-strings and the folding of 
my brochee shawl. 

Offering comment on one of my entertainments given 
in Lyceum Hall, in which I introduced the humorous 
sketch, one of the critics said among other things: 

"Lastly came the grand hit of the evening, 'The Unpro- 
tected Female.' Mr. Barnabee appeared upon the stage 
attired in the style of dress that was the fashion of females 
in 'ye ancient time,' consisting of a plain striped dress, 
antique bonnet, with a long white veil, white shawl and an 
outfit consisting of a satchel, fan and parasol. The composure 
of his features as he removed his veil and seated himself 
after 'taking off his things' so affected the audience that a 
hearty applause was given by everyone present. The 
character was that of a young (?) female who had refused 
many offers of heart and hand and was obliged to content 
herself with merely a review of the past, as time had flown 
so rapidly that she became an old maid before hardly becom- 
ing aware of it. The audience were favored with a short 
history of a few of her past lovers, which she related while 
seated. It was concluded with a very piteous bewail, re- 
lating to the unprotected state of her sex fashioned into a 
song and sung by herself." 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 241 

There was one locality, though — a New Hampshire 
hamlet where dames of uncertain age and warlike pro- 
pensities seemed to be in the majority — which did not 
share in the general appreciation of my character 
delineation. The suffragettes (poor sufferers) voted it 
"horrid!" 

In Salem, Massachusetts, I struck one of those 
strange coincidences which checker the artist's career. 
As I recited the ballad of "Arabella," — about a beau- 
teous young lady who is admired for her pearly teeth, 
only one of which has the slight defect of being filled 
with gold, and who while out yachting becomes sea- 
sick and loses the whole set, thus giving away the 
dread secret of the fake gold filling — I noticed that the 
audience was almost riotous in an outburst of merri- 
ment that lasted fully five minutes, and came back at 
frequent intervals throughout the entire entertainment. 

All to the good, I thought — but why this unwonted 
hilarity? Was anything wrong with me? I felt a trifle 
nervous, until the thing was explained. It seems that 
a few days before there had been a steamboat excur- 
sion at reduced rates to Provincetown, Cape Cod; and 
half of Salem had taken it in. They had no sooner 
got fairly out to sea than a violent storm broke; and 
as the waves increased and the boat rolled along, the 
passengers, between the pangs of seasickness, prayed 
the captain to put about and make for home again. 
This he was glad to do, and the boat safely reached her 
pier — but not before some forty of the voyagers, by 



242 REMINISCENCES OF 

actual count, had parted with their artificial masti- 
cating apparatuses! 

Thus dentistry in Salem got a great boom — and, 
incidentally, so did my recitation of "Arabella." 

Speaking about being particularly favored in my 
efforts to entertain an audience reminds me to make 
mention of the happy hit that I made on the evening 
of October 20, 1882. It was on a Friday and the 
Boston Ideal Company was presenting the opera 
"Patience." During the singing of one of my Bun- 
thorne gems, the piping voice of an infant child was 
heard just about the time when I was reaching the 
lines of my part — "This is a little thing of my own." 
The interruption by the child created a little audible 
ripple of amusement which rapidly increased to the 
wildest uproar of merriment, when as The Observer 
states — "the quick-witted Barnabee skipped the lines 
before the words mentioned and with a comical expres- 
sion and gesture peculiar to himself, he waved his 
hand gracefully to the cherub in the gallery, and said, 
'That is a little thing of my own!' It was several 
minutes before the audience was quieted, and at in- 
tervals ladies and gentlemen burst into a hearty 
laugh which became general again as soon as Barnabee 
added the lines of his part — 'but I won't publish it!' 
Nothing funnier has ever occurred in the opera house, 
and many laughed until they suffered. The father, 
mother and child looked inquiringly about, not having 
heard the words of Bunthorne, and they had no idea 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 243 

of the fact that they had involuntarily assisted in 
making a hit for Barnabee." 

ECHOES FROM THE DAYS OF "PATCHWORK" 

"Barnabee is certainly master of his art, uniting with a 
rich voice extraordinary powers of rhetoric and imagination. 
His words of melodious measure and faultless rhyme were 
witty and humorous indeed; but his wonderful faces, his 
matchless grimaces, called forth the loudest applause and 
convulsed the audience with laughter. Even an iceberg 
would have melted to a smile." — Providence Press, 1870. 

"His 'Patchwork' is made up of an almost endless variety 
of musical, comic, and dramatic selections, in each and all 
of which he is an adept, carrying his audience with him, 
either in convulsing it with laughter or in hushing it to 
perfect stillness, through his finely-drawn pathos." — Lowell 
Critic. 

"The hall rang with plaudits on his (Barnabee's) every 
appearance, and encores followed his every piece on the 
program. The entire sang froid and irresistible comicality 
with which he went through all his songs and recitations 
brought the house down in laughter that can only be de- 
scribed by calling it a roar." — Auburn News, 1870. 

"The great triumph of the evening was reserved for Mr. 
Barnabee, whose magnificent bass carried the audience 
completely by storm. His 'King and the Miller' was ap- 
plauded from beginning to end. Applause followed at the 
end of every verse, and sometimes even threatened to break 
in on the middle. The last deep note capped the climax, 
and a thunder of applause called for more." — Morning 
Chronicle, Halifax, N. S., 1871. 

"He (Barnabee) is utterly above and beyond any descrip- 
tion or criticism of ours, and his memory must ever remain 



244 REMINISCENCES OF 

with us as that of a conundrum to which we have vainly 
striven to find the correct answer. He has a fine bass voice, 
beside knowing how to use it, and commands our admiration 
and applause by his rendering of scientific compositions 
with the same ease with which he convulses us in his comic 
songs." — St. Croix Courier, St. Stephen, N. B., 1872. 

"Mr. Barnabee is very pleasing, both in voice and manner, 
showing a perfect appreciation of music and verse, either 
classic or humorous. He is a whole concert troupe himself." 
— Calais Advertiser, 1872. 

"Barnabee himself convulsed and brought down the house 
with his humorous selections. The man who could sit un- 
moved through one of his songs (if such a one could be 
found) should go at once and unite his fortunes with that 
of the Serious Family." — Schenectady Evening Star, 1872. 

"Few men have the remarkable power that Mr. Barnabee 
possesses, of entertaining for an hour and a half a large 
and mixed assembly. Not one in a thousand could do it; 
and yet this gentleman held a large audience under perfect 
control, and the last act of the entertainment was as fresh 
and grateful to the listeners as the first." — Portland Star. 

"But the immense part of the concert was the Barnabee 
of the troupe. If he isn't immense, then the concert was not 
a success. His 'Cork Leg' and 'Mrs. Watkins' Party' were 
killing."— Jamestoivn Journal. 

"His voice is rich, deep and powerful, and wielded with 
grace and expression. He is also a lyric humorist of the 
highest order, his 'Alonzo ze Bravo' being the juiciest jumble 
of music and humor that we have ever heard." — A Cleveland 
Critic, 1870. 

"Barnabee was in his happiest mood, and gave some of 
his very best humorous songs and recitations. 'The Monks 
of Old,' a rollicking song, was capitally rendered, and in 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 245 

response to an encore he sung the 'Patent Arm,' a fitting 
companion to the 'Cork Leg,' which fairly brought down 
the house. The legend of 'Bluebeard' was most mirth- 
provoking, and received with a storm of applause." — Cape 
Ann Advertiser, 1874. 

"Those who heard and saw will not soon forget nor cease 
to laugh over the memory of it, and those who neither saw 
nor heard it and the remaining waggeries and drolleries of 
the man Barnabee lost the best bit of pure unmingled fun 
that has ever been offered a Cambridge audience." — Cam- 
bridge, N. Y., 1879. 

"Mr. Barnabee is called in common parlance the 'great 
humorist'; but while he has no superior in this department, 
this is, after all, by no means the real standard by which 
he should be judged. Behind all his humorous productions 
and inimitable acting there is ever plainly visible the strong 
elements of the manly and thorough gentleman, while in 
the midst of all his humorous songs the musical critic detects 
that magnificent, tuneful, exactly toned voice, which shows 
to the best advantage in the most highly finished composi- 
tions of the best composers." — From a Lowell Musical Critic. 



Chapter XXII 



INVADING THE WEST 

GOING FORTH TO CONQUER. — SIEGE AND FALL OF TROY. 
— UTICA SURRENDERS. — ELMIRA BESIEGED. — BUFFALO 
BOMBARDED. RETURN OF THE INVADERS. 

"Westward the course of empire takes its way; 
The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day; 
Time's noblest offspring is the last." 

— Bishop George Berkeley. 

IT HAD been gradual^ glimmering across my 
lethargic understanding that if I desired to extend 
my reputation I must increase my sphere of action 
and allow the mellowing effulgence of my talents to 
beam upon other communities than those which I had 
visited during so long a period. 

This idea had been percolating through my thought- 
cells for two or three years, when it received a sudden 
jolt of acceleration from an acquaintance who had 
piloted a popular musical organization through the 
devious bypaths, back-trails and one-night stands of 
the untrammeled West. 

This advance agent of prosperity intimated that a 
pot of money, besides sundry laurels as good as new, 
there awaited Henry Clay Barnabee, whenever he 
might see fit to go after them. 

246 






HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



247 



With my accustomed readiness to gather in all that 
was coming to me, I immediately began preparing to 
leave my familiar New England haunts, and, as my 
Uncle Joshua, of Warren, New Hampshire, expressed 
it, to "explode" the West. 

I engaged the services of the then leading New 
England soprano, Mrs. H. M. Smith, whose "worser 
half" had agreed to halve with me the expenses and 
profits, if any, of the long-distance venture. I also 
enlisted in our enterprise a cornet-player, who was to 
all musicians of that persuasion what Rubinstein was 
to pianists. To hear him play a famous masterpiece 
was to be well-nigh swamped in a soulful flood of 
melody. 

Yet, his name was Arbuckle — not Emerson. 

There was, however, a cornet-player who bore the 
latter classical cognomen, and who, as a windjammer 
in that particular line of brazen pyrotechnics, had 
acquired in certain quarters a formidable reputation. 
Crowds went to hear him; and when — like the skipper 
of the "Julie Plant," in the late Dr. Drummond's 
Canadian dialect poem — he 
"Blew, blew, blew, 
And then he blew some more," 

they listened and watched with fearsome fascination, 
as his cheeks and neck swelled and his eyes bulged out, 
freely predicting that "sometime, something would 
happen to him sure!" When, in the natural course of 
human events, Ralph Waldo Emerson, the revered sage 



248 REMINISCENCES OF 

of Concord, passed away, two Boston shopmates were 
discussing the news in the morning paper, and one of 
them said: 

"I see Emerson is dead." 

"No, you don't mean it!" exclaimed the other. 
"Well, I always thought he would blow his damn 
head off, some time or other." 

Not so with our soloist, the unrivaled Arbuckle. It 
was as easy for him to play as to breathe. When he 
gave clarion-voiced expression to Gounod's "Ave 
Maria," or to the unaffected loveliness of "The Last 
Rose of Summer," it was indeed "linked sweetness long 
drawn-out." 

Thus equipped, and with the further addition to our 
forces of a pianist to "accompany" us in both senses 
of the word, we set out on our westward way, and for 
a debut undertook the siege of Troy, New York. 

In later years, owing perhaps to uncertain hotel 
accommodations and uninviting surroundings, a wet 
Sunday in Troy came to be generally regarded by the 
traveling profession as the Ultima Thule of human 
misery. But to us, that opening night, it seemed, 
from a distance, like the vestibule to the treasure- 
caves of Golconda. 

Alas! Whatever the association of that one-night 
town by the Hudson with the ancient Helen of Greece, 
may betoken, it is certain that financially we got 
"Helen" Troy. The amount we drew from the money- 
pot there was just twenty-nine dollars ($29.00). But, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 249 

oh, how that twenty-nine dollar Trojan audience did 
applaud! They looked upon themselves as our dis- 
coverers, and went wild in mutual congratulations. 

Utica was our next port, on the Erie Canal. On 
entering the hotel there, I chanced to recognize in the 
proprietor a former Bostonian. At the same time I 
recalled a little trick in the practical-joking line which 
consisted in catching the stiff brim of my derby hat 
under my turned-up coat collar, so that, without any 
perceptible movement on my part, the hat would rise 
from my head and tumble off behind. 

Approaching the proprietor's desk, I timidly inquired 
the price of accommodations at his hostelry. 

"Four dollars and a half a day," he replied, looking 
up. 

"Four dollars and a half a day! Good!" I repeated, 
while an expression of dismay and horror stole over my 
face, my hair seemed to stand on end, and my hat fell 
unheeded to the floor. 

The landlord nearly collapsed, then enjoyed such a 
fit of laughter that he knocked two dollars off his 
price, and we became lifelong friends. If I were to meet 
him today, he would immediately cry out: 

"Four dollars and a half a day! Good!" 

He boomed our concerts for all they were worth, 
but we failed to take Utica by storm, and, though our 
receipts for two nights were better than at Troy, we 
went on our way without any unseemly rejoicing. 

Elmira proved no turning point in our financial 



250 REMINISCENCES OF 

fortunes. When I sang my "Planchette" song — so 
named after a little pseudo-psychic machine, a fad of 
the hour, which was supposed to answer questions — I 
asked how much the members of the Barnabee Concert 
Company would be enabled to salt down in real estate 
out of the proceeds of that evening's entertainment. 
The slim house roared with merriment, and made us 
feel that they heartily appreciated our trick of extract- 
ing pleasure out of adversity. 

When we were "put off at Buffalo," we met fellow 
sufferers, and enjoyed for a day or two that company 
which misery proverbially loves. It was the Santley 
troupe, from London, consisting, besides the great 
baritone himself, of M. Patey, Miss Edith Wynne and 
Mr. Cummings. They were being steered through this 
country by the only Dolby, who had acted in a simi- 
lar capacity for Charles Dickens, but with far different 
financial results. 

I inquired if their high-class music, so to speak, 
hadn't shot just a little over the heads of the natives. 

"Why, yes," was the reply. "Over in Titusville, 
Pennsylvania, owing to Santley's rapidity of utterance, 
combined with absolute immobility of countenance, 
they thought 'Oh, Ruddier Than the Cherry,' a comic 
song, was very badly rendered!" 

That was one difficulty, at least, which I managed 
to avoid. People always knew what I was talking or 
singing about, and my face gave the cue whether to 
laugh or cry. Buffalo did both, and received me with 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 251 

open arms and heart. One young lady came up on 
the stage after the performance, and said what a 
pleasure it was to hear the Boston singers sing. 

And still the receipts kept down on a dead level of 
insufficiency. 

Euclid Avenue — I mean Cleveland, Detroit, Chi- 
cago — then in its up-and-down stairs period; St. 
Louis — the same old smoke hangs over it still; and all 
the little towns growing between, all yielded the same 
monotonous net result — personal and artistic success, 
abundant enthusiasm, fine press notices — But why 
linger over the chronic treasury deficit? 

We gave in all thirty-nine concerts, and we came 
out at the little end of the — cornet. After paying 
out all the money we had taken in from the promised 
land, we had to dig down in our pockets and bring up 
the savings intended for a summer vacation, which 
now we shouldn't be able to afford ourselves. 

Back East we embarked, sadder, wearier, but a great 
deal wiser. I was consoled, however, with the thought 
that I left behind me a wake of pleasant memories 
and kindly impressions. This has proved a precious 
certainty in my many return visits West, where a host 
of friends in word and deed have been "with me" 
through all the years which have followed, and will 
always remain the same. Not such a verj* long time 
ago a little girl wrote me: 

"When the time comes for one of us to leave this earth, 
I shall miss you, even if I go first. But I shall never feel as 



252 REMINISCENCES OF 

if I'd lost my friend, for ours has not been a friendship of 
many meetings, anyway, and we've had to do most of our 
friending at long distance." 

After I had entered the operatic field, I seldom 
visited any of the scenes of my earlier concert exploits 
but requests were sent up that I should introduce such- 
and-such a selection, remembered from my former 
program. This was embarrassing. Fancy the four- 
wived Pasha in "Fatinitza" warbling "Oh, Loving 
Heart, Trust On," or the Sheriff of Nottingham hold- 
ing up "Robin Hood" to do "The Cork Leg!" But 
it goes to show the grip we had taken on their musical 
affection. 

The day after we arrived home in Boston, the so- 
prano and myself were asked to sing at a funeral, our 
fee for which was ten dollars, and we grabbed it con- 
vulsively. The services were held in the most spacious 
church in town; and as we looked over the choir rail 
and saw the pitifully small band of mourners assem- 
bled, I could not refrain from whispering to the soprano 
the same question that she had asked me many a 
night on the road, as we faced our small and sparsely 
settled audiences: 

"Do you think there are enough to pay expenses?" 
And so endeth this lesson. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 253 

PROGRAM PRESENTED BY THE BARNABEE 
CONCERT TROUPE, DECEMBER 1, 1871 

Trio — I Navigante, Randegger 

Mrs. Barry, Mr. Fessenden, Mr. Barnabee 

Waltz Song — Robins Come, Henssler 

Mrs. Smith 

Duo — Robin Ruff, Russell 

Mr. Fessenden, Mr. Barnabee 

Song — See the Rivers Flowing, Proctor 

Mrs. Barry 

Song — In Days of Old, Hatton 

Mr. Barnabee 

Quartette — There's One That I Love Dearly, Kucken 

Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Barry, Mr. Fessenden, Mr. Barnabee 

Song — Three Ages of Love, Loder 

Mr. Fessenden 

Song — She Whispers Softly Good-night, Abt 

Mrs. Barry 

Trio — Le Toreador, Adam 

Mrs. Smith, Mr. Fessenden, Mr. Barnabee 

Song — Sleep, My Darling, Meitzke 

Mrs. Smith 

Song — Questa a Quella, Verdi 

Mr. Fessenden 

Song — Wanted, a Governess, Parry 

Mr. Barnabee 

Quartette — Come, my Dearest, Abt 

Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Barry, Mr. Fessenden, Mr. Barnabee 



Chapter XXIII 



THE GOOD OLD SUMMER TIMES 

A LA FRANCAIS. — MISTAKEN BY PRESIDENT HAYES. — 
"joshing" WITH JOSH BILLINGS. 

"// the sun rizes in the east and sets in the west, and the bullfrog sings sams 
in the marshes, and thare aint no "pulling hair in the family circle, things are 
about 02 near right az yu can git them." — Josh Billings. 

BY THIS time my curious readers will be asking 
what did this alleged comedian do with his 
glad summer times. Did he sing all summer 
and dance all winter, as the frugal ant ironically 
suggested to the frivolous grasshopper in the fable? 
Not exactly. But there were many pleasant and 
restful breaks. For years the wanderlust in me was 
curbed by strenuous economical considerations; and 
Portsmouth, or Warner, New Hampshire, would be 
about my excursion limit. Then, when fortunes and 
shekels increased, the noble Hudson found in me an 
enthusiastic admirer, as did picturesque Lake George. 
I also navigated the St. Lawrence River, with its 
shoot -the -chute rapids, including the hair-raising 
Lachine, and sang the Canadian boat song: 

"Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight past." 

254 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 255 

And of course I went ashore at Montreal. Which 
reminds me: 

One Sunday morning we went to the French Cathe- 
dral, which is reckoned to seat some eight thousand 
people. Looking about upstairs, I was struck by the 
large number of empty pews all placarded with one 
name, apparently of the person who retained them. 
And I said within myself: "Now, here is a man after 
my own heart. His benevolence takes this most com- 
mendable form of paying for church sittings for poor 
sinners." 

In the evening, at the Jesuit church, there were a 
lot more reserved pews, all bearing that same name of 
the mysterious philanthropist. My heart went out 
to him. I called an usher, and said: 

"Who is this kind old saint that corners pews in the 
principal places of worship? He must be a power for 
good in the community." 

"Yes, sir," replied the usher, smiling in pity as he 
had to shatter my fond illusion. "But that 'A Louer' 
isn't precisely a name, sir. It means 'To let.' ' 

After this downfall I took up the study of French, 
and gradually became expert in making myself mis- 
understood in that polite tongue. When I saw on a 
New Bedford hotel menu the item, "American cheese 
a la fromage," I was able to tell the proprietor that 
the expression "was not just the cheese." 

My Canadian summering included a sail up the 
majestic, mountain-walled Saguenay, and a ramble 



256 REMINISCENCES OF 

through Quebec, which has quaintness to burn. There, 
on the Plains of Abraham, historians say that General 
Wolfe, before going to meet Montcalm in battle, read 
Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," and de- 
clared he would rather be the author of that poem 
than a victorious soldier. Well, he was the latter; 
and as to an immortal elegy, if he did not write one, 
his heroic death inspired somebody else to do so. 

Like a true and loyal New Englander, nw thoughts 
in vacation time for many a year turned fondly 
toward the White Mountains of the old Granite State. 
I knew those everlasting hills before railroads had 
scratched up the landscape, or choked off the old- 
fashioned, invigorating stage-coach journey. 

It was on the breezy summit of Mount Washington 
that I first encountered a real, live President of the 
United States. The Hon. Rutherford B. Hayes, during 
his Presidency in "the seventies," swung round the 
New England circle, and so timed his visit as to be in 
conjunction with that of the famous divine for whom 
he momentarily mistook me. 

At that time I was wearing my hair long and gray. 
I stood on the station platform up there in the clouds, 
as the car bearing the Presidential party arrived. A 
quiet, dignified gentleman, "bearded like the pard" — 
though up to then no "pard" of mine! — alighted, 
made a dead set for me, grasped my hand and shook 
it as a candidate before election might have done, 
and exclaimed: 

"Ah! Mr. Beecher, I am so glad to see you!" 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 257 

I congratulated Mr. Beecher, but of course, I re- 
frained from keeping up the impersonation of the 
titanic pulpit orator of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn. 
But President Hayes was willing to accept me at face 
value as plain Barnabee, and we became close friends 
— there being little room to spare up there on the 
pinnacle of New England. 

He voiced the thanks of the audience when I gave 
my entertainment in the evening. I replied that, con- 
sidering the altitude at which we stood, and the lofty 
rank of the distinguished spokesman, this was the 
highest compliment I had ever received. 

The "Glen" at Gorham has another claim on history 
in general, and on mine in particular as having been 
for several summers the meeting place of the Henrys — 
Henry Shaw, endeared to the world under his familiar 
pseudonym of "Josh Billings," and "yours truly," 
Henry Clay Barnabee. 

Josh was the original pioneer of simplified spelling, 
and the only man who ever successfully got away with 
it in actual practice. He also combined it with a novel 
and ingenious system of prosody, by which almost 
any two words could be made to rhyme, simply by 
changing the orthography of one or both until they 
mutually corresponded. Take this quotation, for in- 
stance, from his "Farmer's Allminax": 

"A shiftless man wuz Farmer Snyder, 
He spent his time a-drinkin' syder. 
Together he worked a kow and a mewl, 
And never sent his boys to skewl." 



258 REMINISCENCES OF 

Josh Billings was a tall, slouchy, stoop-shouldered 
man, and the funniest thing about him was that he 
did not look or act in the least like a humorist. He 
wore his hair long, but somehow it seemed to suit his 
rugged personality. He was the last man on earth 
that one would ever have thought of calling literary. 

I always said he looked like Rubinstein, the pianist — 
or, rather, as Rubinstein would have looked had he 
been a "rube." 

Much of the quaint Billings philosophy used to 
gurgle, fresh and sparkling, into my willing ears, 
long before it won, as matter fit to print, the responsive 
grin of the great public. It used to pour forth in pro- 
fuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

He loved nature, and knew her most seductive 
hidden haunts. He believed "Natur never makes 
enny blunders; when she makes a phool, she means 
it." The greatest problem given to man to solve, 
according to Josh, and the one which will ever confront 
him, is that of "Knowing thyself." 

As an angler, he was a wonder. The wary trout had 
no secrets from him. Like the traditional barefoot 
boy, he could go out any day with a bent-pin hook and 
a small-sized bean pole for a rod, and before sundown 
snake in a bigger string of speckled beauts than all 
the rest of us could capture with our expensive up-to- 
date tackle. 

Any attempt to write down from memory the droll 
sayings of Josh Billings is like bringing pebbles away 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 259 

from the wet seashore, and expecting them still to 
look like pearls and diamonds after we get them home. 
There are a few pebbles, however, that every comedian 
would do well to carry about as souvenirs from Joshua's 
lake of philosophy. What three lucky stones, for 
instance, could be of more value to the mirth provoker 
than these rough pebbles inlaid with pearly truths: 

"Thare iz az mutch difference between wit and humor az 
thare iz between the ile and the essence ov peppermint." 

"Thare iz this difference between a jest and a joke — a 
jest may be kruel, but a joke never iz." 

"Every time a man laffs he takes a kink out ov the chain 
ov life, and thus lengthens it." 

Or take, if you will, his definition of laughter: 

"Laffter iz the joy ov the soul comeing to the surface to 
hav a good time." 

Nothing better was ever said. 

Josh was a fine whist player — one of the kind that 
can remember everything, and call correctly the last 
four cards to be played. Once I was looking over his 
shoulder, hoodooing his game no doubt, when it was 
his first play, and he led a trump. Now, I always 
had an idea that trumps should be "hung onto." I 
asked him why he had played this thusly, and he 
answered solemnly: 

"Barney, when it's your play, and you have five 
trumps, there are only two reasons why you should 
fail to lead one." 



260 REMINISCENCES OF 

"Name them," said I. 

"Paralysis or apoplexy." 

One summer, at that same hotel, a strange and 
uncommunicative guest took up his abode "in our 
midst." He was a silent, swarthy, straight-haired 
individual, with a suspicion of the aborigine about 
him, only more stolid and stunned, a sort of "brother 
to the ox." Many were the speculations in which we 
indulged regarding him; and Josh used to relate 
"curious details," which I suspected were made up 
out of the whole cloth. 

"Say!" remarked Josh one day, "when that fellow 
came up on the train, t'other day, he complained that 
he had a headache from riding backwards on the 
cars. They asked him why he didn't request the 
passenger sitting opposite him to exchange seats, and 
he said Ihe couldn't, because the seat facing him was 
unoccupied ! 

"Why, what do you suppose? Someone made him 
a present of one of these mountain sticks, with a carved 
head and chamois horn on it. And the first thing he 
did was to saw off that head, because the stick was 
too long. When asked why he didn't saw it off at 
the bottom, instead of at the top, he said the bottom 
was all right — it was only at the top that the stick 
was too long." 

Finally, we got so curious about the man that we 
went to the landlord, and Josh said: 

"Who is your savage friend, anyway? — the chap 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 261 

that is always brooding over something, and goes 
about looking like a war whoop in disguise?" 

"Oh," replied our genial host, "that's Old Wampum, 
as we call him. He is a digger — no, not a Digger 
Indian, but a delver into all sorts of tribal lore, and 
he knows the derivation of every copper-colored 
name between here and the Mississippi." 

"There, you see, Barney," said Josh Billings gravely, 
"we have sadly misjudged the gentleman. It appears 
he has more knowledge in his head that isn't worth a 
damn than any two men that ever came up the pike." 

After I left Portsmouth, and was in the habit of 
making frequent visits during the good old summer 
times, I was continually hearing of an institution that 
had been added to the attractions of the city — one 
"Jasper" — a "cullerd pusson," but why "Jasper" no 
one knew — who was employed, at odd jobs, about the 
home of my sister who lived on the ragged edge of the 
town. Jasper attended to the out-of-door work in a 
frock coat, somewhat the worse for wear, but which, 
with a bright necktie, accentuated his respectability 
when he brought the family carriage around to the 
front door. He was a five footer, curly hair, of course, 
bright eyes with white surroundings, shiny teeth, and 
was all together rather a picturesque looking "nig." 
I can never think of the following occurrence that was 
told me without indulging in immoderate mirth 

The day before the birthday anniversary of my 
sister's husband the side door bell rang, and my sister, 



262 REMINISCENCES OF 

being near, answered it, and there stood Jasper on the 
steps, with fear in every line of his countenance, hold- 
ing a tray with two large round red boxes, with strings 
hanging from the covers, and looking like two immense 
cannon fire crackers. Jasper passed up the tray, 
saying, "Birthday present for Mr. Mendum." My 
sister, being in great terror of anything of gun powder 
manufacture, shrank in horror and shrieked, "Take 
'em into the field and fire 'em off." Jasper complied, 
while she rushed upstairs, opened all the windows, to 
save them from the impact of the explosion, put a 
shawl over her head and awaited the dread result. 
Jasper walked out into the field, legs trembling, teeth 
chattering, eyeballs glistening, set the tray upon the 
grass, took a match from his pocket, and with one 
leg stretched out for a quick start, applied the light 
to one of the strings and ran for the barn as though 
Satan was after him. When he ventured out he was 
hailed from the beleaguered garrison with, "Cover 'em 
with newspapers and try it again!" Jasper did so with 
the same result. Quick exit! No go! "Then dig a 
hole and plant them," from the window. After this 
was done the family serenity was restored, though 
Jasper told the husband, on the sly, what happened 
and begged him not to betray him to "Missus." 

The next day the family was at dinner with the 
son. As they took their seats at the table the boy said, 
"Well, pap, did you get the peppermints I sent you 
yesterday?" 




Josephine Bartlett. who 
played Dame Durden In 

•Robin Hood" 
Elolse Morgan, a prima 
donna with the Bostonians, 
who played Xinnette in 

"Prince Ananias" 
Fatmah Dlard, a prima 
donna with the Bostonians 



Tin- charming lyric soprano, 
Alice Nielsen 

Gertrude Zimmer. a prima 
donna with the Bostonians 

Camllle D'Arville. a prima 
donna with t hi- Bostonians 



Bertha Waltzlnger, a prima 

donna with the Bostonians 

Marie .Stone, a prima donna 
With the Bostonian- 

Juliette Corden, alternate 
prima donna with Marie 
Stone, with the Bostonians 




The Famous Original Bostonians, at high water mark 
The Original Tinkers' Chorus in Robin Hood 
Birthplace of Henry Clay Barnabee .Portsmouth, N. H. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 263 

"Peppermints?" said Pap. "I have seen no pepper- 
mints." 

"What? Didn't see those two red boxes I sent you 
filled with peppermints?" 

"Well," laughed Pap, "your mother thought they 
were cannon crackers and had them planted in the 
field." A shout went up, at the expense of my sister, 
whose red face acknowledged the blunder, but Jasper 
watched that planting for a long time, wondering 
whether cannon crackers or peppermints would sprout. 



Chapter XXIV 



BOUND FOR "YURRIP" 

EXPERIENCES ON THE ATLANTIC. — IN THE LAND OF 
SHAMROCKS. — KISSING THE BLARNEY STONE.— SOME 
SURPRISES. 

"From each cave and rocky fastness 
In its vastness, 
Floats some fragment of a song." 

■ — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

THROUGH all my life hitherto, I had steadily 
cherished the hope of some day invading "furrin 
parts." I can remember when Europe seemed 
as far off as Heaven, and, with my income, the 
latter locality was quite as accessible. But now after 
a persistent "saving up" till I was slightly "ahead of 
the game," I thought it about time for the realization 
of my dream. 

It was in 1878, the year of the Paris Exposition, that 
on the tenth day of May, had you been aboard the 
steamship "Germanic," you would have met "yours 
truly" in company with his wife bound for the land of 
historic murders, monarchs and museums. 

Now "Yurrip" has been done so much and so often 
in every conceivable and inconceivable way, that it 
is no wonder the old "Continong" betrays signs of 

264 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 265 

wear and tear. I cannot hope to add anything new or 
original in the way of description or moralization, nor 
to change with my graphic pen the impressions already 
prevailing as to the countries of the Old World. 

But to me the trip does stand as a sort of "Midway 
Plaisance" in my life journey and I cannot be restrained 
from exploiting a few chapters from my log. 

My first real acquaintance with the Atlantic Ocean 
was when, on climbing up to the deck after a blank 
period covering inany hours, I gazed around at the 
water-boundary of the horizon, and involuntarily 
exclaimed with the old lady who always got to the 
church vestry lunch a little late, and found to her 
dismay that the eatables were all devoured, but there 
was plenty of coffee: 

"Well! I'm glad to be once where there's enough of 
one thing!" 

The staunch and gallant ship made the run in seven 
days and nineteen hours. Indeed, she was a staunch 
ship — I know this because I bumped my head against 
various parts of her, and could not make the slightest 
impression — on the ship I mean. Let me state, how- 
ever, that I think I know what I am talking about 
when I say I don't hanker for any more Atlantic 
Ocean in mine. My "calm-as-a-mill-pond" theory 
vanished the second day out. On that day Mrs. 
Barnabee retired between spasms to "the seclusion 
which a cabin grants," to spend the remainder of the 
voyage in vain regrets at having ever left her happy 




266 REMINISCENCES OF 

home. I paced the promenade alone, dropping things 
over the bow of the ship and then following them 
back to the stern, so as to get a line on the day's run, 
and perhaps have the ghost of a show in the pool. 

"Try not to eat," the steward said, 
"But hie you to your little bed, 
And there repress your rising tide," 
But out it gushed in spite of pride. 
E-u-u-r-r-o-o-p-p-e. 

"Beware the stateroom's lonely cell, 
Beware of victuals, sight or smell," 
This was the doctor's kind good-night. 
A voice replied in accents light, 
E-u-u-r-r-o-o-p-p-e. 

We met no wrecks or derelicts, save those we car- 
ried on board. As a matter of fact we seldom passed 
a vessel, and about the only thing to relieve the monot- 
ony of the ocean's gray expanse was an occasional 
meeting with a school of porpoises, out at recess, 
taking part in aquatic sports. It was the same old 
round from start to finish: 

Steamer chair — promenade — breakfast. 
Steamer chair — promenade — lunch. 
Steamer chair — promenade — dinner. 
Steamer chair — promenade — bedtime. 

and then your lonely coffin (that's what it seemed like) 
till the chug-chug-chug of the iron screws awoke you 
to start life over again on the morrow. 

I might confess that I didn't get much sleep the 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



267 



first few nights. To tell the truth the thought of being 
out upon that waste of water without any place to tie 
up to, or a chance to run in case of fire, was a bit 
oppressive. It was a relief to hear the sound of the 
ship's bells proclaiming the hour, or even the sailors 
singing "Roll a Man Down." Later I became so 
hardened that in after years when a vessel in which I 
was riding was struck by a tidal wave, I didn't turn 
out of my berth to find out what had happened. 

There was open communication over the tops of 
the berths, on the Germanic, and by this means I 
made the acquaintance of the only baby on board. 
I could hear her cooing early every morning, and, as 
I took the liberty upon myself of cooing back, we got 
so that we recognized each other. In fact, we got to 
be very good friends. Years after, in the foyer of the 
Casino, on Broadway, New York City, a tall and 
beauteous demoiselle greeted me with: 

"You don't know me, do you, Mr. Barnabee? Well, 
I was the kid on the Germanic." 

The smoking-room on board an ocean liner in those 
days was much smaller than at present, and everybody 
soon got acquainted with everybody else. I established 
myself as quite a favorite by my faculty of being able 
to inject some anecdotes into the ancient-of-days 
assortment warmed up and served daily to those 
willing to receive. The character of most of the givers 
and receivers has been outlived by one grim old gentle- 
man, who, like Jack Horner, sat in the corner and 



268 REMINISCENCES OF 

listened all day long, but who never cracked a smile 
nor articulated a sound. On Saturday night, near the 
end of the voyage, we smoked out this mummified 
person, and commanded him to stand and deliver — 
something, anything. 

"Well, gentlemen," said he, "I admit I have been 
rather backward in coming forward. But I can't sing 
a song, nor tell a story, so I'll have to ask you a co- 
nundrum: 'Why am I like a Christmas turkey?' " 

We all surrendered, as he edged warily to the 
door, when he roared out, "Because I'm stuffed with 
chestnuts!" 

Apropos of this finished sarcasm, it is related that a 
distinguished New York gentleman once visited Egypt, 
and the authorities, learning of his standing at home, 
trotted out a three thousand year old mummy for his 
edification. The defunct monarch had a pedigree 
about as long as his age, and when the attendant had 
finished his discourse, the visitor turned to his friend 
who had accompanied him and remarked, "This is 
all very interesting. Perhaps if I could address this 
king so wrapped up in himself in the language of that 
olden time he might reply." 

"Well, Chauncey," said his friend, "why don't you 
spring that story on him you told me this morning?" 

An impressive silence reigned for a few moments 
and the statoo was bumpety bumped back to its 
sarcophagus. 

The waiter at our table was another individual I 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



269 



cannot forget. He was the first specimen we ever saw 
that belonged to the cockney class. With his '"am an' 
heggs, sir," "'ot water, sir," and when the turkey 
gave out, "hit his finished, sir," he was a circus for us. 
That same waiter belonged to that band which intro- 
duced us to the system of feeing which later prevailed 
to such an extent that I came to regard the extended 
(and itching) palm as the national attitude, and when- 
ever I came in contact with a "statoo," I felt an 
irresistible impulse to place a coin in the nerveless 
fingers. 

One day, while in mid-ocean, we encountered a 
terrific storm. (Bon voyage? Bosh!) The sea rose and 
fell. The hull of a large vessel that we passed within 
a few hundred yards, went, at times, completely out 
of sight. Fact! We stood, alternately, on our feet 
and heads, exercises eminently fit for a gymnast but 
rather disconcerting to a dignified Bostonian. 

We had arranged to give a concert that night, but 
it had to be postponed, first, because there was no 
audience and secondly, there was not a performer in 
sight. It, however, came off the evening before we 
were due at the first stopping place. And even then, 
the vessel was decidedly above the usual concert 
pitch. 

An intrusion occurred in the first number of the 
programme and the intruder did not take a departure 
till everybody had gone back to their little beds. 

The first soloist had hardly started on the first 



270 REMINISCENCES OF 

phrases when the ship ran into a fog bank, the fog 
horn started its t-o-o-o-o-ot and vocal notes after 
that were no good. The audience laughed, the per- 
former reddened, got embarrassed but stuck to his 
post. Finally, he finished and received the congratu- 
lations of the audience. 

The next victim fared no better. He began — 
"Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking, 
The horn of the hunter is to-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-t 
— on the hill, etc.," — till Kathleen came to a sad end. 

Just about this time, strange as it may seem, I had 
a bright idea. I took out my watch and timed the 
tooter. I found there was quite a space between the 
toots, which were periodically regular, and thus, by 
a rapid transit enunciation, I could head 'em off. 
When the corps had all had a try at it, I stepped for- 
ward and said — 

"Ladies and gentlemen: There seems to be a fog 
horn conclusion that this tooter is to blow us to a 
standstill, but not me. I have entered into a conspiracy 
with my watch to beat it out. Now, I will wait till 
the next toot." Then she blew! 

"Make your bets while the horn is sounding. 

T o o o o o o o o o 

All ready! Now we are off," 

o o o o — -o — t 

and I finished my song as many as three laps ahead 
amid great applause. 

"Next one will be a handicap. I will give 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 271 



1 o o o o — o o o o 

it fifteen seconds before I start. 
o o o o 

"Here goes for the three fellows reciting 'Richard the 
Third,' "and just as I said "to the lascivious pleaings 
of sum fellars flewt," the steam flute struck in — 

"Now the next is a nip and tuck, twelve verses with 
a refrain. Double your bets and I take one half of 
the winnings. Is it a go?" 

"'Tis! Tis! Tis! Tis!" from all parts of the cabin. 

"Now wait for the next blow." 
T o o o o o o 

By this time, though the ship were in a 

o o o o o o o 

fog, the audience were in a gale (of laughter and 

o o o o 

fun). "Here we go." 
— o 1 

"I'll tell you a tale without any flam," etc., etc., and 
when the last "ri tu di nu, ri tu di nu" — I slipped in 
under the wire — a winner. 
o o o 1 

In the division of the spoils I collected enough for 
an all-da}^ struggle at poker wherein I invested many 
times, in mistaken confidence that "aces up" would 
beat "three of a kind," "a straight," "a flush," "a full," 
or "four of a kind." "Now good night and play your 
trumpet till morning." 




272 REMINISCENCES OF 

After subsequent experience in transatlantic travel, 
I have come to the conclusion that the American 
sailors must be a comparatively hardy lot, as the in- 
numerable ship concerts given all the year round are 
invariably for the benefits of invalid British seamen, 
or their widows and orphans. 

My bump of respect for our mutual friend, Chris- 
topher Columbus, is considerably enlarged, for if 
with the wonderful improvements of modern science, 
the ocean still has terrors for us, what must he have 
dared, who, with a single plank between him and the 
remorseless sea, still persevered in his search for the 
unknown land. 

We are now nearing the harbor of Queenstown, 
Ireland, and having been informed that if we missed 
stopping off and seeing Ireland on our first arrival, we 
would probably end our days in cross ignorance of the 
beauties of the Emerald Isle, we decided to land at 
Queenstown and get acquainted with the beauties of 
Erin. 

As we steamed up the harbor — the finest I have ever 
seen — the houses on the terraced hillside resembled 
those purchased at the toy shops, square cut and all 
of the same pattern, but we learned afterwards they 
were the residences of the middle class. Higher up 
they were more imposing. 

Where were we to go first? That was the primary 
question confronting us. Had we better go in search 
of the golden harp, the cherished emblem of the island, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 273 

or stop and listen to "The Bells of Shandon"? As 
strangers, everything appealed to us, and nature as 
well as the followers of St. Patrick seemed to greet 
us with open arms. A vote on the question resulted 
in favor of Cork, and we bid adieu to the port of entry 
and started on our Irish wanderings. 

Arriving at Cork, I could not help but recall the 
reception that the city once accorded a certain English- 
man who afterwards became the founder of a great 
state in America. I refer to William Penn. It was 
here indeed that he was converted to Quakerism and 
cast aside his coat of mail for the garb of a peacemaker. 
But it appears that the Corkorians did not approve 
of his "change of costume," for, as we follow history, 
we find a record showing that he was seized and thrown 
into prison, with eighteen others of his faith. When 
liberated, the wearers of the green not only requested 
him to depart in peace, but actually forced him to 
leave the island. 

But Cork was kind to us. Our hotel, the Imperial 
(everything is royal here), tendered us a "nightly" 
reception, the likes of which I have never been the 
recipient of since. The hostelry being full, the landlord 
improvised a bed for us in the parlor, two lounges 
being placed together with three chairs at the end to 
lengthen it. It was about as uncomfortable as the 
berth on the ship, with this difference: that in the 
berth we couldnt lie still, and here we had to. 

The next day, a lovely ride in an Irish jaunting car, 



274 REMINISCENCES OF 

through the greenest country imaginable, with river- 
windings, fields checkered oft' by hedges, stone walls 
and ancient trees, covered with a dense growth of ivy, 
brought us to Blarney Castle. 

I suppose the first question the reader is prepared 
to ask me now, is, "Did you kiss the blarney stone?" 
I confess that I did. And furthermore, I assure him 
that kissing that amulet, which is said to confer on 
those who smack it an irresistible charm of persuasive 
eloquence, is an operation attended with some danger, 
for the stone is the lowest rock of a projecting turret 
at the very top of the castle, a height of one hundred 
and fifty feet. Grasping the irons fastened into the 
famous rock, and with two fellow-beings holding my 
legs, I looked down from the dizzy height and accom- 
plished my object. Firm hands, faithful attendants 
and a strong desire to possess the charm were the only 
things that prevented me from taking a fall as disas- 
trous as that of Humpty Dumpty. From the crowned 
elevation I also saw the veritable "Groves of Blarney," 
about whichfl have sung so many, many times, and 
had the satisfaction of looking down on some things 
which have long since become ancient in song and 
story. 

Nature has been very bountiful in her gifts to Ire- 
land, and especially is this true of that section in which 
lies the fairest of all fair scenes — the lakes of Killarney. 
In going down to see this unrivalled chain of lakes, 
we drove through the "Gap of Dunloe," a wild moun- 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 275 

tain pass, followed at every step of the way by certain 
descendants of "Kate Kearney" who refused to be 
shaken off without a "remembrance." Tore Cascade, 
Muckross Abbey and Ross Castle along the way are 
so noted that it is a reflection oh any reader's intelli- 
gence to repeat the legends with which their history is 
saturated. 

There was a place on Innisfallen Island that was of 
particular interest, inasmuch as we had an oppor- 
tunity to contemplate age and infirmity. The old 
monastery that greets you is a charming old ruins, 
completely buried in ivy, built — only the stars know 
when. Some idea of its age may be gained when I 
write that there is a tree in the courtyard known to 
be over six hundred years old, and from the top of 
the wall of the monastery protrudes the decayed trunk 
of a Jarge tree, which must have taken root since the 
building was a ruin. Think of that and then listen, 
if you will, to the talk of saving that Boston American 
infant in swaddling clothes — "The Old South." It 
makes me laugh! Why, old ruins in Ireland are as 
common as club houses and hotels in America. But 
let us proceed. 

After a regretful farewell to Killarney and its beauties, 
we journeyed to Dublin. Seized with a disturbance in 
my digestive apparatus, I laid over and appropriately 
celebrated by dublin up. I might have stayed several 
days, but as a physician's fee for a visit is a guinea 
($5.16§) I concluded to straighten out and get well. 



276 REMINISCENCES OF 

Several things in Ireland surprised me. First, the 
beauty of the country — the astonishing growth of ivy, 
leaves larger than any mapleleaf I ever saw, completely 
covering high stone walls for miles, and twining around 
the trunks of every tree. Secondly, the absence of 
the low Irish character we see so much of in America, 
and, last but not least, the tameness of the crows. 

Crows! Crows!! Crows!!! They are all "rooks" 
here — reminding me that Brother Joshua once re- 
marked that the crow is a fine bird to hunt, but a 
hard one . to kill. Such could hardly be the case in 
Ireland, they were as numerous and as tame as the 
doves that hover near St. Mark's, Venice. 

I asked our jaunting car driver the caws for this, 
and he said it must be the birds instinctively detected 
a disposition on my part to carry on! 

After a ride on some more sad salt sea surges — this 
time of the Irish brand — we arrived at Holyhead and 
directed our footsteps toward the venerable walled 
town of Chester. As it was some time ago since I 
visited it, I am a little mixed on the history of the place. 
I can't just remember whether Confucius took it from 
Abraham or whether Xerxes captured it from "Aleck" 
or whether the Greeks wrested it from the Athenians. 
At all events, it has a long record of sieges and battles, 
and being surrounded by a wall built a year or two 
before the opening chapter of Genesis, it is well worth 
a visit. 

Thanks to Baedeker's Guide and a hired carriage, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 277 

we were able to show our ecclesiastical friend the sights 
of Chester as he had never seen them before — but 
when, after witnessing a drill of the garrison, I told 
him we had in Boston a school regiment that could 
give them pointers, he was ready, and even urgent, 
to inform us when the next train left for Liverpool. 
And so we departed. 

As we entered our Liverpullian hostelry, the first 
person I met was an old acquaintance, a fellow Ameri- 
can, about ready to return to his home in Chicago. 
He looked downcast. 

"How do you like old Yurrip?" I asked. 

"Thoroughly disgusted with it," he answered, 
shaking his head. "This is not my first trip, but, by 
thunder, it's my last! Why?" 

And then my American friend gave vent to his 
feelings. "Rhine! dirty water! Cologne Cathedral 
has been twelve hundred years in the making and it 
isn't done yet. You know as well as I do that if Chi- 
cagoans had the job they would have had her roofed in 
and opened with prayer, inside of six months. Be- 
lieve me, there's no enterprise over here." 

"Didn't you see anything that you would like to 
take back home with j^ou," I ventured to ask. 

"Yes, one thing only. I've been dining at them 
infernal table d'hotes for three months and got nothing 
but chicken drumsticks every time. I've made up 
my mind that every tough old hen on the Continent 




278 REMINISCENCES OF 

and the Isles is a centipede, and I'd like to take one 
back to stick up in Cook County as a curiosity." 

Despite this unfavorable account, we decided to 
push onward. 

Before quitting Liverpool we attended the opera 
where we saw and heard our little friend Julia Gaylord, 
the former prima donna of "The Two Cadis," in "The 
Golden Cross." I assure you, we were glad to find her 
fulfilling the promise of that early debut, and doing 
her part towards keeping up the American artistic 
prestige on alien shores. 

After a trip up the east coast of Ireland and Scotland, 
touching on everything royal, surveying the checkered 
fields on which kings and queens fought and fell, and 
after wending our way through the silent cloisters and 
hallowed abbeys, we proceeded toward the great goal 
of our pilgrimage — a place where creeds, colors and 
caste boil and bubble, and help to fill the melting pot 
of the universe — the city of London. 




Barnabee as the Duke of 
Santa Cruz in "The Serenade" 
Barnabee and Louise Cleary 
in "Pygmalion and Galatea" 
Barnabee as Professor In 
"The Ogallalas" 



Barnabee: Sheriff as Tinker 
in "Robin Hood," second act 
Barnabee and Mrs. Bart left 
in "Pygmalion and Galatea" 
Barnabee as the Professor in 
"The Ot-'allalas" 



Barnabee: Sheriff as a Tinker 
in "Robin Hood," second act 
Barnabee as Rip Van Winkle, 

nrst act 
Barnabee as Rip Van Winkle, 

last act 




WHALEBACK LIGHT, NEAR 
PORTSMOUTH. N. H. 



Chapter XXV 



DOING DEAR OLD "LUNNON" 

THE HAUNTS OF DICKENS. — IN LONDON TOWER. — HAMP- 
TON COURT. — ON THE THAMES. — WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
— CONCERTS AND DRAMAS. — SIMS REEVES, THE UN- 
FORGOTTEN. 

"Instructed by the antiquary times, 
He must, he is, he cannot but be mse." 

— William Shakespeare. 

WE were a little surprised, perhaps disappointed, 
not to disembark in an impenetrable fog when 
we reached London. The weather was so 
clear and fine that we could plainly see that the 
railway approaches and terminal stations were vastly 
more imposing, not to say more commodious, than 
any we remembered in New York, Boston or Chicago. 

I spent my first few days in the metropolis on the 
tops of omnibuses, ferreting out names and localities 
immortalized by my dear favorite Dickens. I dropped 
upon the original St. George Inn, across the Thames 
in Southwark, where old Sam Weller and Samivel used 
to hang out. 

The landlady of this historic inn was a typical, buxom, 
rosy-cheeked person, wearing an immense cameo 
brooch, with earrings and graduated pendants to 

279 




280 REMINISCENCES OF 

match. She was able to show me the identical easy- 
chair in which old man Weller sat and delivered his 
homilies on "vidders," and the place where young 
Sam blacked boots and reeled off Wellerisms. 

The stairs leading to the outside galleries and the 
bedrooms were worn almost as thin as shavings, with 
footsteps of many centuries; and the sensation was 
strangely hypnotic as they buckled beneath our pil- 
grim tread. We stayed for luncheon, and the joint was 
served as in the jolly days of yore — being carved by 
the person who chanced to occupy the seat at the end 
of the table. 

Later that same day, in the Kensington Museum, 
we examined the original manuscripts of "Pickwick," 
"Dombey & Son," "David Copperfield," and other 
works of Dickens, with their neat handwriting in blue 
ink, their interlineations, alterations, and marginal doc- 
toring, just as they had left the master's hand for the 
printer, now nearly three-quarters of a century ago. 
Oh, that was a day of rare joy, a veritable reunion 
with beloved spirits, unseen, but forgotten — never! 

A friend of mine defending Dickens against the 
reproach of a temperance advocate, to the effect that 
he made the characters in his novels drink too much, 
exclaimed : 

"Why, bless you! Dickens didn't make 'em drink — 
he couldn't prevent their drinking. They just drank 
like fish, of their own accord!" 

I must say, that is pretty nearly true to life, if my 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



281 



observation of London and Londoners amounts to 
anything. 

Our party — reinforced by a Boston newspaper man 
as bright and witty as they boast of over there — was 
ushered through the labyrinths of the London Wine 
Vaults. The walls were said to be twenty feet thick; 
and our guide's head could not have been much 
less. 

Huge white, gray and black cones of mould hung 
from the ceilings — stalactites of this bibulous Cave of 
the Wines. 

I stirred up the echoes and a solitary rodent by 
singing "Simon the Cellarer," with the loud pedal on. 
Then we sampled the wine — a mellow Madeira such 
as was known as "Canary" in Shakespeare's time — in 
Lilliputian glasses. We were expected to just sip the 
nectar and smack our lips, instead of "turning it in 
loose" as we did. On being feelingly reminded that 
the beverage was over a hundred years old, my friend 
held up his thimble-like glass and remarked: "Mighty 
small for its age!" 

At the National Gallery, I picked out a "Murillo" 
and Sir Edwin Landseer's "Spaniels" for my gallery, 
but did not care to take them out of the building on 
account of their weight in English pounds. They are 
probably still on the nation's hands. 

We dropped in at the British Museum, saw that 
everything was there, and noted that the course of 
art instruction was of the co-educational order, as all 



282 REMINISCENCES OF 

the bachelor maids were drawing or working on Apollo 
Belvideres and other presentments of the male form 
divine. 

We gazed without comment upon that most expen- 
sive piece of bride-cake architecture, the Albert Me- 
morial; climbed 540 steps and the dome of St. Paul's 
to view the landscape o'er, and observe the operation of 
winding the great clock, which takes forty-five minutes 
(why, I have seen hustling American executors wind up 
an estate in less time than that); visited the Tower, 
where the royal beef-eaters dressed in the antique cos- 
tumes of Henry the Eighth, saw where Anne Boleyn, 
Lady Jane Grey, Mary "Queen of Scots" and a host 
of other celebrities were executed, the chamber where 
Queen Elizabeth was imprisoned; the cell wherein Sir 
Walter Raleigh had years of captivity to think matters 
over; the narrow vault where the regalia or crown 
jewels lie in state, and the very spot where the young 
princes were murdered. All this, and more to be found 
in the ancient citadel, helps to preserve for the modern 
Anglo-Saxon the record of the bloody deeds and daring 
of his ancestors. However, anyone, whether red, 
yellow, black or white, will find the Tower a splendid 
banquet hall in which to feast on crimson blocks, 
rusty blades and national arms. 

I did not intend to write a guide book when I com- 
menced these travel chapters. Pardon me, gentle 
reader, but I should like to carry you along with me 
to a few more points of interest. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 283 

Hampton Court, an old residence of English sov- 
ereigns, situated at the entrance of a splendid park 
of eleven thousand acres, laid out with flower beds 
galore and goodly walks, bids us welcome. 

Imagine if you can five rows of horse chestnut trees, 
all of them stately and grand, on either side of a mall, 
a mile and a half or two in length. When they are in 
bloom, there is no such sight in all England. I can 
only imagine what Hampton Court House must have 
been with its pictures and other evidences of wealth 
in those far-off days when the trees were all in bloom, 
and sovereigns and half sovereigns gathered on the 
rolling green. 

In the magnificent garden we saw a wonderful 
grape vine, rivalling some of those to be found on our 
own Pacific slope. It was planted by King George I, 
one hundred and twenty years ago, and is as large as 
an ordinary tree, yielding in the neighborhood of some 
twelve hundred pounds of grapes. I can, in my dreams, 
see myself trying to quench my plebeian thirst with 
the juice from such a vine. 

We did not have to imagine or guess about the 
Thames — that temperance stream that has quenched 
the erring appetites of kings, queens, traitors and 
scoundrels since the beginnings of time. Amid a 
moving panorama of every conceivable kind of convey- 
ance on keels, laden with the floating population of 
London, and all having the merriest kind of an outing, 
passing the loveliest stretch of residences, we paddled 



284 REMINISCENCES OF 

our way to Twickenham Ferry, and then disembarked 
to seek the Star and Garter. 

The principal features of this renowned hostelry 
on that memorable day were a very so-so dinner, a 
beautiful view of the river and its surroundings, and 
a Britishism from one of the waiters. 

Just before leaving New York I was induced, by a 
friend, to imbibe a Martini cocktail, which everyone 
who has any knowledge of ambrosial alcoholic bever- 
ages knows is compounded of gin, vermuth and other 
delectable ingredients, and is "mellering to the organ," 
so much so, that I then and there inwardly resolved 
that if I was ever asked again my particular "vanity" 
in drinks, I would articulate Martini. That's what I 
did at the Star and Garter. 

After an absence of thirty minutes, the usual in- 
terval allowed for a London waiter to get anything, 
the proud imperious servitor reported: 

"Hawfully sorry, sir, but we cannot serve that 
Martine." 

"What," said I, "the finest hotel in the world not 
able to furnish a Martini cocktail? Why?" 

"The fact is we — we — we are entirely hout of 
Martine." 

"Well, then," I added, by way of mending matters, 
"you may give me a Manhattan — that is, if you've 
got any Manhat." 

But he hadn't. I double-tipped him, though, for 
his addition to my stock of jokelets. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 285 

Another waiter to whom I did not begrudge any 
amount of tip while abroad was an Elizabethan fellow 
at the inn at Stratford-on-Avon, who was so imbued 
with the Shakespearean spirit of the place that he 
talked blank verse even when serving a chop or draw- 
ing a mug of ale. 

'"Ave you bordered, gentle sirs?" 

"Thank you, we have." 

'"Tis well!" — with sepulchral voice and tragic air. 

I have touched on the custom of tipping in the pre- 
ceding chapters, but it hit me so hard that before I 
returned home I had learned to look upon it as an 
organized "hold-up" business. But I was not the only 
one held up. 

A well-known American poet-critic, standing at the 
stern of a steamer departing from Southampton, turned 
toward the crowded pier and shouted through an im- 
provised megaphone: 

"If there is any man on this whole island to whom I 
have not given a sixpence, let him now come forward!" 

The silent palm is extended everywhere — 'mid 
pleasures and palaces and hovels, by the wayside 
beggar and the gold-laced lackey in the royal estab- 
lishment at Windsor. Even the statues in West- 
minster Abbey, in many instances, stretch out a 
sculptured hand in whal looks like a suggested "touch!" 

The late Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll did not, so 
far as I am aware, comment upon this peculiarity of 
the tombs and statues of the mighty dead ones of 



286 REMINISCENCES OF 

Westminster; but when the enormous solidity of the 
sarcophagi enclosing the royal remains was pointed 
out to him, he said to the verger: 

"If any of them escape, notify me by cable." 

We visited this aristocratic God's acre — Westmin- 
ster Abbey — and saw with our own eyes the marble 
memorials holding down the remains of the great and 
good of England. I noticed also that the inscriptions 
seemed to typify the usual London weather, for every- 
body had died and was buried during a reign. 

It would be taxing your time and patience if I 
should attempt to read the names from the scroll of 
the honored dead. But the most interesting part of 
the Abbey, I might relate, is the Poets' Corner, where 
are to be found memorials of the British poets, Chaucer, 
Dryden, Milton, Shakespeare, Gray, Addison, Thom- 
son, Tennyson and our own dear American poet, 
Longfellow. 

If there are any in the "400" or "Who's Who" class, 
at home or abroad, who would like to examine the 
bones of their ancestors or who desire to discover the 
source from whence flowed their "blue blood," I would 
advise them to spend a fortnight in this great repository 
and get acquainted with all that is mortal of the 
Edwards, the Richards, the Henrys and the Georges. 
Yes, they were the pampered kings who pointed with 
pride to their family crests and urns of "unearned 
increment" — the mighty ones who wore the ermine 
of state and the nom de 'plumes of Roman numerals. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



But like the royalty found on the chess board, they 
didn't stand long. Each in his own allotted time top- 
pled and fell, and were stored away in this great abbey 
where "valiant dust that builds on dust," like the 
"pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre." 

Perhaps, my friend, the two coronation-chairs 
which are in Westminster and in which the rulers of 
Britain have been anointed and crowned for ages, 
might prove of interest to those who delight in col- 
lecting old furniture and bric-a-brac. Inanimate as 
the old chairs are, yet they are full of history — if 
nothing more. Personally, I should like to see them 
purchased and brought over and placed in some 
American drawing room or Museum. Mr. Financier, 
how much will you bid for them? 

Having dutifully accomplished what we set out to 
see in the line of "sights," we felt entitled to some rest 
and recreation. So we went to the Covent Garden 
Opera four times, hearing "The Barber of Seville," 
"Paul and Virginia," "Rigoletto" and "Faust," with 
casts including Patti, Albani, Gerster, Trebelli, Bettini, 
Scalchi, Nicolini, Capoul, Fancelli, Maurel, Rota and 
a host of other celebrities. 

We heard one oratorio and seven concerts. We 
listened to Antoinette Sterling's sterling and inde- 
structible voice, and applauded the historic tenor 
Mario, at a testimonial given in his last decline. On 
this occasion the incomparable Christine Nilsson sang, 



288 REMINISCENCES OF 

and figuratively speaking, she put all the other artists 
in the background, or in her pocket. 

We weathered the storms of a "Stabat Mater" 
raised by a church choir. Honestly, it was the most 
diabolical outrage ever perpetrated upon an unoffend- 
ing audience. They afterwards attempted other 
offerings but with no better effect. 

By way of contrast, we heard Sir Arthur Sullivan's 
"Pinafore." It was new and spick-and-span, then, 
and I took copious notes of the performance, little 
thinking how serviceable they would be to me later on. 

At the theater we saw "Our Boys," and "Diplom- 
acy," but they were hardly up to the American standard. 

Our one real theatrical sensation was Henry Irving 
as Vanderdecken, in "The Flying Dutchman," at the 
Lyceum. It was an impressive production scenically 
as well as in the sense of histrionic art, particularly 
in the scene where old Van is thrown from a rock into 
the sea, and then washed up by the surf onto the beach 
again — for he can't lose himself. 

It was our first sample of Irving — a memorable emo- 
tion. His strange personality and speech struck us 
hard, at the outset; but we had the satisfaction of 
soon forgetting them, and all other external matters, 
in a spellbound appreciation of the great, compelling 
actor, which never waned in after years. 

Here is where, without dropping into a maudlin, 
"blood-thicker-than-water" strain, I wish to note a 
distinguishing and admirable trait of our British 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



289 



cousins, and that is their staunch, fervid loyalty to 
their own. In our dear land of free speech and free- 
and-easy manners a public person has to be good, do 
good, and make good, first, last, and all the time, or 
else be pilloried, scorned or "turned down." But in 
England, once established in the public favor, not all 
the king's horses nor all the king's men could wrench 
loose the hold of public loyalty. 

This was never better illustrated than in the case 
of the world-renowned English tenor, Sims Reeves. 
We were eye-witnesses and ear-witnesses to his pro- 
digious and unshakable, if also well-deserved, popu- 
larity. No less than seven times did we buy tickets, 
at a guinea per, to hear Reeves sing, and fell down 
each time, because he was out of voice. But the 
eighth time, at the Alexander Palace, he was all there, 
and he was a joy forever! Such a welcome as he got 
was fit for a conquering hero. When he had finished 
the aria from "Don Giovanni," there was a roar; but 
when his grand and soul-stirring ballad, "The Bay of 
Biscay, O!" rang out, as from a silver trumpet, the 
cyclone of uproarious enthusiasm broke loose. The 
multitude rose en masse, cheered themselves hoarse, 
and hurled their loose wearing apparel into the air. 
I was one of the ringleaders of that mob. 

They said that Sims Reeves was a wreck, that he 
was patched, powdered, hair-dyed, and doped up 
generally for that supreme moment of performance, 
which left him limp as a rag half an hour after. I 



290 REMINISCENCES OF 

don't know. If he was a wreck then, how I wish I 
might have heard him when, full-rigged and with all 
canvas set, he sailed gloriously into the hearts of his 
fellow-countrymen! Such a voice, such style, expres- 
sion, phrasing, intonation, and sustaining power I had 
never heard before, and the memory still remains with 
me, unique and unapproachable.* 

A jaunt to Epsom Downs, on "Darby Day," con- 
vinced me that, dearly as the Britisher loves his horse, 
the four-legged creatures on such occasion are not in 
it with the human race. Such a tremendous, surging 
concourse of people, all on pleasure bent, could scarcely 
be matched in all the world — unless possibly, on the 
board walk at Atlantic City, New Jersey. 

One day in Boston when the Prince of Wales (later 
King Edward VII) was passing in a procession, I had 
the honor of lifting my hat to His Highness, and he 
returned the courtesy. I did the same thing in Hyde 
Park, London, in 1878, but he seemed to have forgotten 
me. 

However, I touched elbows with the Grand Old Man, 
Gladstone, on Regent Street — a sturdy, stalwart 
figure, with deep, dark, glowing eyes that reminded me 
of Daniel Webster's. 



* As an artist Sims Reeves stood out persistently for those privileges 
which the possession of an unrivalled voice might be considered to confer 
on him. In the opening of his career at Milan he once refused to sing, 
owing to a throat trouble, and though a squad of gendarmes carried him 
off from his house to La Scala he remained obdurate. So frequent in his 
latter years did the disappointments to the public become that Sims Reeves 
was himself a sufferer. He never acquired the great fortune which lay within 
his grasp, and his old age was spent in comparative poverty. — Editor. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 291 

A delightful "at home" with the Howard Pauls, a 
musical evening with John L. Hatton, the composer, 
pianist, and singer, and an English high tea with Miss 
Braddon, were among the social dissipations of our 
London sojourn. 

Altogether, despite our plebeian origin, we had a 
royal good time in London, and were not unduly 
elated when the day came that saw us off for "gay 
Paree and the Continong." If we failed to get our 
share of the good things over there, or if we left any- 
thing valuable behind us, the population is welcome 
to it. 



Chapter XXVI 



A SHORT TRIP THRU "YURRIP" 

" He sees the passage of this globe of earth, 
And makes right use of what his sight partakes." 

— Barnabee's Itinerarium. 

AFTER a ride across the English Channel, we 
^"^ arrived at Calais, a famous old stronghold 
which played a part in English history years 
before Columbus was the leading man on the Amer- 
ican stage. Over one of its own gates are the words: 

"Then shall Frenchmen Calais win 
When iron and lead like cork shall swim." 

But this was a false prophecy, for although England 
considered it to be "the brightest jewel in her crown," 
the time came (1558) when the Frenchmen, tired of 
English rule, took the gem away from Queen Mary, 
and this happened centuries before ironclads and 
submarines plowed the historic waters. 

We had our first encounter with a foreign language 
soon after leaving this French port. I had purchased 
tickets for Cologne, they had been put in an envelope 
and slipped into my pocket. Just before the time of 
presenting them to the head official, I took a look at 
them, and found, to my horror, that we were on our 
way to Koln. There was no strap to pull and we 

292 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



293 



couldn't alight from the car. I was in despair until 
a good-natured German, in the same carriage, explained 
matters, but I confess that I felt for a few moments 
as the chap in a railway car did, who was cursing his 
bad luck, when a horrified person, sitting in the next 
seat back, tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Did 
you know you are on the road to perdition?" "Just 
my cussed luck," replied the young man, "I bought a 
ticket for Portland." 

Well, we journeyed on and reached the frontier, 
where our grips were examined. When the officers 
understood thoroughly that we could not understand 
a word they said, they talked all the faster. My 
friend from Boston put a stopper in the next encounter 
with the following formula preceded by several darker 
words: 

" Have you ever had the measles and if so 

how many?" 

The checks were pawed out immediately. This 
shibboleth was repeated many times and whether it 
was the matter or manner of its delivery, with the index 
finger shaking close to the proboscis of the offender, 
that produced the desired effect we never had ac- 
knowledge, but it always, except in one case, secured 
the passes and a side-splitting laugh from the by- 
standers. 

Our next discovery, looking from the window of the 
car, was that women's rights were not the subject 
of mad discussion in that neighborhood, for we saw 



294 REMINISCENCES OF 

members of the weaker sex, and boys, in the heyday 
of youth, mowing grass, pitching and loading hay, 
while the male head of the family was asleep or enjoy- 
ing his pipe of peace. 

Cologne being the next watering place, we con- 
cluded to remain over night, and fill our travelling 
canteen with the sweet perfume, which was on tap, 
or by the bottle or keg, as per the display signs, at 
every other door. We spared a hasty glance at the 
famous cathedral, one of the finest specimens of 
architecture in Europe — and were informed that it 
dates back to Charlemagne's time, and that its entire 
cost represents an outlay of ten million dollars. 
Skyscrapers always cost. 

We started up the Rhine, and for forty-eight hours 
we took our fill of the panorama of mountains, hills, 
villages, castles and terraces. We put in the first day 
at Bonn with Beethoven and his immortal symphonies. 
I used to sing to my dear mother a song, the last of 
each verse ending with "Bingen on the Rhine." It 
was her prime favorite. Goodness knows, I never 
expected to see the place, but, when the morning broke, 
there it was shining like a dream. Above the pic- 
turesque town rose the Mouse-tower where Bishop 
Hatto cornered the grain market and fell a victim to 
the rodent invaders. After a short trip in the neigh- 
borhood of this fairyland, we proceeded to the land of 
Heidelburg. There were no students in sight, as it 
was vacation time, but we stopped to inspect an ancient 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 295 

ruin. The only thing connected with the venerable 
pile was the capacious tun which was thirty feet long, 
twenty-five feet in diameter, held fifty thousand 
gallons, had been filled three times and the chap who 
tended it three thousand times. It must have taken 
that fellow several summers to make those swallows. 

The age of these reminders of the past brought to 
mind forcibly the story of the clergyman from some 
upper county in New Hampshire who came riding up 
to the grocery store, mounted on a dilapidated nag 
in the last stages of decay, presented to the reverend 
gentleman the day before at a church celebration." An 
irreverent rube standing near inquired, "Parson, whar 
did ye git that d — thing?" The reverend meekly 
replied, "Well! it's quite as good an animal as our 
Savior rode into Jerusalem upon." Whereupon the 
reviler stepped up to the head of the collection of 
bones, opened the toothless jaws and snapping them 
together with a hollow sound ejaculated — "Same 
hoss!" 

The trip from this point back to Paris has been 
"done up" so many times that my readers will escape 
weariness if I just hustle things along "in a line" of 
flight rather than stopping at every stand to deliver 
a lengthy "travelogue." 

We enjoyed the loveliness of Baden Baden, waved 
our banner at Munich, visited Verona — found the "two 
gentlemen" out, but stood in the place where Octavius 
Tiberius or some other stony-hearted old Roman 



296 REMINISCENCES OF 

shouted "Bring on a fresh martyr," plunged through 
the Tyrol and feasted our eyes on the most enchanting 
scenery. On the Piazza of St. Mark's we ate cranita, 
saw the representation of that same old Do(d)ge in 
the picture galleries, and talked American-Italian to 
the swarming beggars. We glided on the Grand Canal, 
passing under the bridge of the Rialto where "Shylock" 
was "rated for his money and its usuries," and saw the 
house from which lovely Jessica eloped. Floating 
onward we gazed upon the palace where Othello 
wooed and won the gentle Desdemona, and saw the 
decaying tenement where Lucretia Borgia, she who 
played a great and terrible yet fascinating part in 
history, trapped many an unwary gallant. We crossed 
the "Bridge of Sighs" where the prisoners condemned 
by the once powerful "Council of ten," took their last 
look of the blue Italian sky, and visited the dungeon 
which resounded to their last prayers and groans. 

And now our footsteps are turned towards the setting 
sun. First comes Lake Como, then Florence the 
Beautiful with her galleries filled almost to bursting 
with masterpieces of art, and then on to Milan where 
heavenward rises the wondrous cathedral which simply 
overshadows all the others we have as yet seen. Cer- 
tainly I never shall get over those immense pillars. 
I have forgotten their diameter and circumference, but 
there were enough of them to go around and still have 
enough left for several other cathedrals. W r ith our 
cry of "Excelsior" we climbed Switzerland's lofty 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 297 

mountains, crossed her motionless "billows of ice" 
and sailed on her lovely lakes. Finally, we sat down — 
that is, just for a rest — in the most beautiful of beauti- 
ful places, naughty, wicked, imperial Paris. The 
exposition was in full swing, and, as we had attended 
the Centennial two years previous at Philadelphia, 
we had an opportunity to size up the foreign make 
with the American brand. We found new sensations. 
We went wp in the Balloon Captif, thirty of us, all 
scared half to death but all exclaiming "How beauti- 
ful!" W r e went down into the sewers, paddled around 
in a large flat-bottomed boat, through its interminable 
labyrinth of canals, bringing away nothing but smells 
which lasted us during the remainder of our stay in 
the city. We went into the catacombs, where three 
million bones are piled up in small squares, each pile 
surmounted with a grinning skull and crossbones, and 
the only thought that agitated me was, how will all 
of the occupants find the right bones when the last 
trump sounds. To conclude, the statue of "Liberty 
Enlightening the World" was on exhibition, and by 
special invitation we took the inside route to the head 
of Liberty and took a rest on the sofas located in the 
cheeks. Some cheek, you will observe, but not any 
too much considering what Liberty was required to do 
later — stand in New York harbor and give an imitation 
of enlightening a world with a torch of as much as four 
candle power, supplied by the powerful city of New 
York. It is said that when the Tammany chief shall 



298 REMINISCENCES OF 

have evened up with Croker in the spoils of office, an 
addition of two more dinky candles may be confidently 
expected. In the meantime, the goddess is having the 
time of her life in the enlightening business. Here, 
my friend, is where we start for God's country, and 
our verdict is that of all the cities, London is the most 
interesting; Paris, by far, the most beautiful; and 
Venice, the bride of the Adriatic, the most fascinating. 

It was a great trip and I enjoyed myself from start 
to finish, but I am perfectly satisfied to dwell in the 
land where no monarchs preside; and the one precious 
spot whose radiance surpasses all others and which 
sways a magnetic influence over me, is where the motto 
"God Bless Our Home" hangs upon the wall. 

Home — home, sweet home! 



Chapter XXVII 



BIRTH OF THE BOSTON IDEALS 



"When the history of the Boston Ideals is fully read (lure irill he written 
up to their eredit tiro great services which they hare rendered to musical progress 
in this country. Tin y raised the standard of light opera performance in every 
way. They hare also had an excellent moral effect. Their performances hare 
been far more refined than those of most companies, and more free from music- 
hall reminiscences of suggestion and business. Barnabce was n reformer upon 
his own account. Tic showed that a comedian could be excruciatingly funny 
without being ungentle manly. Another good work of the company was tlie 
intelligent delivery of dialogue, particularly the Gilbert dialogue. In this re- 
spect they have surpassed all their competitors." — Chicago Critic. 

RETURNING from my European peek-a-boo — 
which was not a waste of time — from the 
kaleidoscopic sights of foreign capitals; the 
languages and sounds of a rapid-transit Babel; the 
rubbings-np against kings and queens, aces and deuces; 
after the tussle which my letter of credit had had with 
the banking institutions abroad, a grave problem 
presented itself. 

Financially^speaking, I was in a predicament similar 
to' that of the minister's boy, who, on a Saturday after- 
noon, sat on a snake fence watching a woodchuck- 
hole, when the visiting clergyman who was to exchange 
pulpits with his father next day passed along the road, 
on his^way to the house. Observing the lad with bulg- 
ing eyes intent upon his expected prey, the reverend 
gentleman said: 

299 



300 REMINISCENCES OF 

"Well, my boy, do you think you'll get him?" 

"Get him?" was the reply — "get him? I've got to 
get him. The minister's comin' and we're out of 
meat." 

The weekly lyceums found it difficult to corral full 
houses at two dollars for twelve entertainments; the 
concert system was getting a little shaky in the knees 
and backbone, and needed a rest-cure; or something 
novel to be sandwiched in between times for the culture- 
bred, to give variety and aid the musical digestion of 
the highbrowed regular patrons, as well as of the rank 
and file. 

Strange as it may seem to my readers, I occasionally 
developed a bright idea. Now, my friend Arthur Sulli- 
van — whose "Sir" prefix was not tacked on until a 
period subsequent to that of which I am now writing — 
had made a screaming success of his musical setting 
of that perennial Madison Morton farce, "Box and 
Cox.' Why shouldn't one good "turn" usher in another 
and the aforesaid success be repeated with something 
else? 

I undertook to answer this question by personally 
conducting a step-ladder investigation along the top 
shelves of a musical mausoleum, where superannuated 
favorites were laid out in the dust of oblivion. Pres- 
ently I dragged from this repository the theatrical 
remains of "Betsy Baker; or, The Laughable Adven- 
tures of a Laundress," a rollicking farce in which 
"Betsey" and her friends,.the Marmaduke Mousers, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



301 



disport themselves in unconscious accord with the 
classical dramatic unities. 

Remembering as I did William Warren in the piece, 
I concluded that I had a corner on the future. 

Rechristening the piece "Marmaduke Mouser," I 
proceeded to take the center of the stage. Members 
of my concert company were cast for the principals 
of the new piece, and then we set to work to raise a 
chorus. One idea was to have the chorus painted on 
the back drop, as had been done before, and has been 
done since. But as this chorus of ours was to be 
heard rather than seen, I finally decided to substitute 
"shouts outside," these to be furnished by stage hands 
and the back-door hangers-on, who were always with 
us, and would do anything to get in to see the show. 

Everything was now ready for our grand musico- 
farcical venture, except the lyrics and music, these 
being regarded as essential to a production for which 
a number of expensive singers had been engaged. I 
therefore sought out a newspaper dramatic critic and 
said to him: 

"Ben, you have such a keen eye for gaps, deficiencies, 
and shortcomings that you are just the man to furnish 
the proper thing in lyrics and such like for this show, 
to make it staunch and bomb-proof. Will you do it?" 

He was so surprised that he agreed to the proposition. 
The musical director of "The Two Cadis" undertook 
to collaborate with him and vamp out a score. They 
were to frame up a practicable lyric and provide the 



302 REMINISCENCES OF 

necessary atmosphere with which to run it. The 
inevitable happened, in due course. 

There is a repartee oft heard on the Rialto, to this 
effect : 

"Are Gagger and Shine friends?" 

"No, they are collaborators." 

Our collaborators started in with the never-ending 
dispute: Which is the main guy, the composer or the 
librettist? They are still at loggerheads, and the 
great question remains unsettled to this day. The 
immediate result of the feud was that our atmosphere 
became a trifle murky. However, we thought we 
might be able to sing through it. 

I circularized all managers within reach, advising 
them to call early if they wished to book us. Strange 
to relate, they did! 

We toured the New England towns, principally, 
alternating "Mouser" with concerts, and contriving 
to lay by an amount of money sufficient to withstand 
the onslaughts of railroads, hotels, op'ry-house pro- 
prietors, restaurants, rathskellers, and the pay-roll, 
and still leave a vestige discernible to the naked eye. 

One cherished recollection of that winter was my 
first meeting with the Hon. James G. Blaine, the 
"Plumed Knight" of my political idolatry. At Au- 
gusta, Maine, where he lived, he came on the stage 
one night after the performance, to give us a good 
word of appreciation and cheer. 

With his dark, brilliant eyes, his strong, animated 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 303 

face lit up with a genial smile, his hair and beard already 
touched with silver, he looked outwardly what he was 
at heart — the soul of chivalry. His handshake was 
warm and vote-compelling. He spoke of his enjoyment 
as though he meant it — and perhaps I didn't get in a 
brief line of admiration for him. Oh, no! 

Subsequently I had frequent occasion to know what 
a "good audience" Mr. Blaine was. On my part, 
though guileless of politics, I remained ever a loyal 
adherent of Maine's splendid statesman, who, alas! 
finally went down to undeserved, unwarrantable and 
untimely defeat. 

Rising every morn with the early worm that's 
caught by the bird, and traveling all day amid the 
uncomfortable vicissitudes inseparable from one-night 
stands, was not conducive to any hilarious flow of 
animal spirits. Still, we contrived to extract a modi- 
cum of fun from even the most forbidding conditions. 

One simple but effective bit of business for getting 
a laugh was worked almost daily by the tenor and 
myself in collusion. We each carried in our waistcoat- 
pockets an old-fashioned tuning-pipe, for the purpose 
of striking the proper key at picnics, funerals, and such 
like emergencies. These could be adjusted and blown 
so as to sound any note in the gamut. We would enter 
simultaneously at opposite ends of a car, with the 
pipes attuned a minor third apart. These we would 
nonchalantly place to our mouths, concealed under 
pocket handkerchiefs, and then, as if by chance, accord 



304 REMINISCENCES OF 

each blow a stentorian blast. At the sound of this 
mysterious chord, the passengers would all start up 
in their seats, with varied expressions of bewilderment 
at the unwonted coincidence of two gentlemen with 
colds in the head, blowing in weird nasal harmony! 

"Well, did you ever?" "Did you hear anything?" 
"What in — was that, anyway?" 

On a certain occasion — speaking of striking the proper 
key — our quartette officiated as musical mourners, at 
the usual stipendiary of ten dollars per, at a rather 
stylish funeral. Some unfamiliar music was handed 
us, on broadsides of the old-time tune book pattern, 
with two different tunes to the side. Poor Prescott, 
the tenor, somehow read the clef signature of the upper 
piece, which was A minor, in mistake for the lower 
one, G major, which we were to sing. Having once 
started wrong, he persisted in keeping that key right 
through to the end, whilst we other three tried in vain 
to sing him down. The effect was worthy of a Richard 
Strauss. Good-bye to our fee, I thought. But the 
next day I was dumbfounded at receiving a check in 
full payment, together with a letter from the bereaved 
Croesus who had hired us, to the effect that, while he 
didn't pretend to know anything about music, still he 
could tell artistic vocalization when he heard it, and 
ours was the real offering! Would I accept the as- 
surance of his high appreciation of our singing? Well, 
rather ! 

At a railway junction, out in the rural districts, an 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 305 

elderly agricultural-looking individual, with whiskers 
like corn-silk, boarded the train. He carried a long, 
frail, swaying article, vaguely resembling a fish-pole 
decorated with faded ribbons. From the care he took 
of this queer object, it seemed as if his future happi- 
ness depended upon its being shielded from harm, and 
kept intact in its newspaper wrappings, all bound 
round with a woolen string. 

What was it? Why, nothing more or less than the 
mummified skeleton of a defunct stalk of corn. The 
old farmer placed it carefully up in the racks, and then 
sat watching it intently, as if he thought it liable to 
get up on its ear and stalk out of the car at any moment. 

"Sir, will you kindly tell me the why-ness of yonder 
extraordinary hand-baggage, and its destination?" 
quoth I, my curiosity finally getting the upper hand. 

"Wall, I hain't no objection," he answered. "D'ye 
see, I left home in Skowhegan, Maine, whar I'm now 
goin', forty years ago. Ef I should go back and tell 
'em daown thar that I'd raised corn fifteen foot high, 
they'd hev me in a 'sylum inside o' tew hours. So 
I'm jest takin' this daown as a specimen of the growth 
o' this blessed country." 

Thus the time flitted pleasantly by and our concert 
troupe flitted with it. 

The season of 1878-'79 proved much shorter than 
usual, owing to the sudden advent of spring's ethereal 
mildness. I was pondering over the proposition of a 
local spring awakening, when it was nipped in the bud 



306 REMINISCENCES OF 

by a cold day, on which the Boston Theater got left, 
and by an untimely frost. 

This proved to be one of those blessings in disguise, 
which we hear so much about, but never officially 
recognize until the requisite identification papers are 
forthcoming. 

Once more the unexpected and accidental operated 
on my many-sided career; and by a peculiar combi- 
nation the current of my professional life was diverted 
from its placid course, to catch that tide 

" — which, taken at its flood 
Leads on to fortune." 

It proved to be high tide — in my affairs. I refer to 
the advent of the Boston Ideal Opera Company, an 
organization destined to carry to the extreme edges 
of this continent the banner of distinctive merit, to 
diffuse pleasure and joy and happiness in hundreds 
of homes — yes, thousands of homes, and to become 
known throughout its history as the representative 
light-opera company of America. 



Chapter XXVIII 



"H. M. S. PINAFORE" 

THE BOSTON IDEALS SAIL OUT INTO THE SEA OF POPULAR 
FAVOR ON THE ROYAL SHIP. 

"One enjoys its drollery, another its music, a third its novelty, etc. Hearing 
it, it is easy to understand why the musical experts and esthetic playwrights 
were amazed at its hold on Die popular heart. They hud explained the igno- 
minious failure of dozens of other extravaganzas — of one because it had no 
variety of action or setting, of another because it lacked popular solos, of a third 
because it treated of subjects far removed from popular interest. Yel Pinafore 
had all these ruinous objections — and it lived and thrived." — Critic. 

IT may seem a trifle egotistical to write of the 
Boston Ideal Opera Company, as I am going to 
do, from the first-person viewpoint; but really I 
have no other handy. The organization and its his- 
tory have been written up — and down — many, many 
times; but the real story still awaits my modest recital. 
This is just how it happened. 

The manager of the Boston Theater had despatched 
his son abroad with plenary powers to secure and 
bring home some foreign attraction guaranteed good 
for a season-end run. The young man found no diffi- 
culty in purchasing a piece according to his specifica- 
tions. It had a great fire scene in the last act; and 



"Her Majesty's Sliip Pinafore" was first presented May 28, 1878, at 
the Opera Comique, London, and made a record run of seven hundred 
nights. Mr. Barnabee attended one of these early performances. — Editor. 

307 



308 REMINISCENCES OF 

yet, in spite even of this "burnt offering," the thing 
turned out "a frost'! 

Then the manager went upon the housetop with 
a telescope, and scanned the theatrical firmament 
for some lucky star, meteor, constellation or comet. 
But it was the musical director who, at this crisis, 
was struck by the shooting-star of an idea. 

"See here," he said to the manager, "this 'Pina- 
fore,' that everybody is crazy about, has been already 
done to death in many ways — but has it been really 
sung? Never! Well, then, why not get Phillips and 
Whitney and Barnabee and Tom Karl together, and 
see what the piece is like, musically?" 

Strange to relate, the managerial perception clutched 
at this idea. The next day, the suggestion of "Pina- 
fore," with these artists in the principal roles, was 
launched. The press took it up, and everybody agreed 
that such a cast would be ideal. 

That was our christening. 

The readers who accompanied me to London, in 
these notes, will remember that we attended a per- 
formance of "Pinafore," when it was newly launched, 
and in its home port. Well, the notes I took on that 
occasion came in very handy as a prompt-book for 
the first production of the Gilbert and Sullivan piece 
in America, which Mr. Field put on at the Boston 
Museum, with his regular company, including Marie 
Wainwright, Sadie Martinot, Joe Haworth, and 
George Wilson. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 309 

By the way, it was here in Boston, also, when "The 
Mikado" came along in due course, that Richard 
Mansfield created the part of "Koko" — and well he 
did it, too. Twenty years later, after Mansfield's 
genius and masterful egotism had forced him to the 
front, and as interpreter he rightly regarded himself 
as being on a par w.'th Shakespeare, Moliere, Shaw, 
Ibsen, and Louis N. Parker, I met him socially in a 
company of some distinction, at St. Louis. As I had 
joined heartily in the chorus of praise swelling around 
Mr. Mansfield, he asked me, genially, in which of his 
roles I liked him best. 

"I haven't seen them all," I replied, "but in my 
opinion you have never done anything more truly 
artistic than your 'Koko' in 'The Mikado.' " 

Subsequently I have thought that the great actor 
did not appreciate this compliment in quite the cordial 
spirit that I unsuspectingly paid it. At any rate — 

"He smiled a sort of ghastly smile, and gave someone else 
the floor, 
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more." 

But "Pinafore," with its Ideal cast, is now my theme. 
The town rang with anticipatory talk, before anything 
had been done in the way of actual organization and 
putting-forward. 

Now, it came to pass in those days that a lady 
manager, Miss E. H. Ober by name, occupying an 
office in the Music Hall, had a large "bureau," with 



310 REMINISCENCES OF 

many sections, in which she kept a large and choice 
assortment of artists to be hired out for a consideration, 
herself absorbing an equitable percentage thereof. 
She was first aid to the injured, in the amusement and 
lyceum fields. 

To Miss Ober our manager went; and through her 
agency, in a very short space which may be approxi- 
mately measured as a "jiffy," the company or crew was 
signed, and the good ship "Pinafore" got under way 
at the Boston Theater. 

Our l'ne-up was as follows: 

Adelaide Phillips, the superb contralto; Myron W. 
Whitney, the basso of his time; Tom Karl, the dulcet- 
voiced tenor; Barnabee, the prosperous litterateur 
from whose pen these memoirs flow, and who can also 
sing some; Frothingham, a recent graduate from 
minstrelsy; Hitchcock, a rising young baritone; and 
Georgia Cayvan, who was really and truly a "sweet 
little Hebe.'" Mrs. Knowles and Lizzie Burton were 
two more "Ideals," whom we were a little later in 
realizing. 

Miss Cayvan was already a favorite reader and 
elocutionist. The footlights beckoned her brightly. 
When I led her on the stage, our opening night, it 
ushered her into a profession which she adorned 
throughout an all too brief career, her best-remem- 
bered triumphs having been won as leading lady 
of Daniel Frohman's original and unrivaled Lyceum 
Stock Company of New York City. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 311 

On the eve of our premiere, Miss Phillips was sud- 
denly taken ill, and had to resign her part. The role 
was then assigned to Isabelle McCulloch, afterward 
the wife of Brignoli, the famous Italian tenor. 

Marie Stone was first choice for "Josephine"; but 
she was doing matinee warble stunts with Emma 
Abbott, and could not be unanchored. The Tuesday 
before our opening date came round, and we were still 
shy a . "Captain's Daughter," though the signal of 
distress had been flying for a week or more. 

On that Tuesday morning, at rehearsal, just as the 
conductor, from force of habit, rapped on his desk for 
the "Josephine" who never came, a young lady in 
street attire floated breezily alongside from the O. P. 
entrance, threw aside her veil, disclosing a very win- 
some face, and took up the air from the orchestra's 
cue, as if nothing had happened. 

The apparition was startling, and some of us 
murmured : 

"What phenomenal nerve!" 

But a minute later we knew that the apparition had 
a charming voice; and in two minutes we were con- 
vinced that she knew how to sing. Also, she was up 
in the part. A spontaneous outburst of applause 
filled in her first pause, and she was engaged on the 
spot. 

Her name was Mary Beebe. It transpired that she 
had previously tried to ship with us, backed by a 
recommendation from Annie Louise Cary; but for 



312 REMINISCENCES OF 

some unfathomable reason had never obtained a 
hearing. This was her method of climbing in at the 
cabin port-hole; and as an illustration of Yankee 
feminine "git-up-and-git," the incident deserves chron- 
icling. 

That completed the roster of the original "Ideals"; 
and, with an outward equanimity which perhaps none 
of us felt within, we awaited the night of the premiere, 
also the "morning after," with the newspapers con- 
taining our notices, criticisms, and possibly artistic 
death-warrants ! 

When the night of April 14, 1879, duly arrived on 
schedule time, we were all fit and ready. (Accent on 
the "fit.") I have heard soldiers describe their sensa- 
tions on first going into battle; but if there is any form 
of terror equal to that experienced by a person profes- 
sionally and financially interested in the first per- 
formance of a new piece, when everything, including 
one's anatomy, is trembling in the balance, I shouldn't 
care to sample it. If I had not arranged with the musi- 
cal director that he should keep one eye on the baton 
and the other on his seasick and wobbty friend, the 
Admiral, "the seclusion that the cabin grants" might 
have been mine prematurely. 

The theater was packed to the dome with Boston's 
best and bravest, including the Apollo Club in a body 
— an assistance calculated to cheer their comrades on 
the stage. Enthusiasm was on tap before the over- 
ture. When the curtain went up and showed a full- 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 313 

rigged man-of-war, with a complete crew engaged in 
the duties incidental to preparing for receiving an 
"official" visit, the generous applause splashed all 
over Her Majesty's ship and its cargo of living 
freight. The principals certainly got a "reception"; 
every song, duo, trio, and ensemble was encored; from 
the "Admiral" down to the "Midship mite," every- 
body scored, and there was glory enough for us all. 

This successful launching of "Pinafore" elicited the 
word "revelation" from a critical Boston press and 
public, and the Ideals became a fixture before they 
had sung Sullivan's tunes a week. Indeed, we "played 
capacity" for nine weeks, straight away — a record 
for that place and time of the year. During this run 
Adelaide Phillips recovered from her illness, and 
Von Suppe's "Fatinitza" was put in rehearsal for our 
second offering. 

I have already named the officers who so gallantly 
manned the good ship "Pinafore," but before weigh- 
ing anchor, I desire to add to the log the names of 
the rest of those who answered "roll call" when the 
waves dashed high o'er the Boston footlights. Every 
one of them, whether a "jolly tar," a marine, a sister, 
a cousin or an aunt, was a singer of well-founded 
and widely extended reputation. Take them all in 
all— 

"A better crew of lads and lassies 
Never sailed the royal waters." 



314 



REMINISCENCES OF 



Marguerite Brickett 
Minnie Moulton 
Stella Hatch 
Jessie Hatch 



Carrie Lothian 
Jennie Robinson 
H. A. Brown 
C. E. Gooch 



Charles Winter 
George E. Boyle 
Curtis Adams 
James Montgomery 



D. F. Zerrahn 
A. J. Hubbard 
H. L. Bradeen 
J. A. Baker 
Park S. Rush 



Sopranos 

Alice Barnicoat 
Ida F. Thoreau 
Vililla Chase 
Viola Parker 

Contraltos 

E. E. Edwards 
Gertrude Parsons 
Fannie Dudley 
Emma Wyman 

Tenors 

E. D. Daniels 
J. J. Maloney 
H. A. Cripps 
J. E. Burgess 
C. Danforth 

Bassos 

J. A. Harrington 
J. C. Turner 
J. L. Gilbert 
J. Burchmore 
William Whitney 



Mrs. J. B. Mullen 
Mrs. W. H. Gilbert 
Mrs. A. Demont 
Mrs. B. E. Currier 



Mrs. Delia Smith 
Mrs. Charles Pratt 
Mrs. A. M. Nicholson 
Charlotte Blair 



C. T. Sylvester 
H. E. Bonney 
F. L. Crowell 
H. Waterston 



F. Fenniman 
H. C. Jordan 
H. F. Dixie 
C. H. Reed 



Director of Chorus — S. L. Studley. 



Prompter — N. Lothian, Jr. 



The spirit of comradeship and mirth, which for 
years afterwards pervaded the atmosphere of the 
Boston Ideals and made our organization like a jolly 
big family of overgrown kids, hovered over it from 
the start. As Miss Ober used to say: "My singers 
are ladies and gentlemen, and they are all Americans. 
They are not cross-grained and cantankerous like the 
imported artists, who, as a rule, seem to have been 
trained from childhood to hate each other and their 
manager." 

On the last night of the season's run of "Pinafore," 
following an immemorial custom at the Boston Theater, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 315 

we went in for "larks," the audience gleefully entering 
into the spirit of the occasion, and everybody putting 
up a joke or gag on somebody else. Mine was rather 
a neat and whimsical little inspiration, I thought. 
Early in the evening the orchestra had greeted my 
entrance with a calathumpian fanfare and crockery- 
crash, followed by an untimely interpolation of the 
"Cork Leg" air, to which I responded with the right 
words and business, as though Gilbert and Sullivan 
had composed that classic ditty expressly for "Sir 
Joseph Porter" of the Queen's Navee. My innings 
came later on, at the very close — in the finale, where 
the principal characters repeat the tags of their num- 
bers in a grand medley. It was my duty at this time 
to sing: 

"I am the Monarch of the Sea, 
And when I marry thee 
I'll be true to the devotion which my love implants." 

and Hebe responds: 

"And so will his sisters and his cousins and his aunts." 

But without any warning, I sprang the following 
substitute lines: 

"I am the Monarch of the Sea, 
And when I marry thee, 
I'll abjure knee-breeches and icear long pants." 
"And so—" 

began "Hebe" Cayvan, but she got no further. The 
dreadful trouserloons line stared her in the face, and 



316 REMINISCENCES OF 

she had no alternative but to turn up stage with her 
blushes and embarrassment, while the chorus did the 
best they could under the circumstances, and the 
curtain dropped amid a gale of laughter. 

Dear old "Pinafore" nights! I remember how on 
another occasion — this time at the Globe Theater— 
when, upon the fall of the curtain after the first act, 
a loud call was made for Miss Ober, "Sir Joseph" 
stepped forward and said: 

"I hope that this little interpolation in Gilbert and Sulli- 
van's immortal work will be forgiven on this occasion. As 
our manager, Miss E. H. Ober, has not acquired the art of 
addressing audiences yet, she has requested me to speak in 
her behalf for herself and company. It is gratifying to have 
such an ovation from an audience here in this, our home, 
by birth or adoption, and, though it is said a prophet is not 
without honor save in his own country, I venture to say 
that the box sheet of this theater for the past three weeks 
shows that we have been a profit if not prophets, and your 
generous applause demonstrates that we are not without 
honor," etc. 

Ah, those were palmy days ! Only a little more than 
a quarter of a century gone, yet it is like delving into 
ancient history. And today the "Admiral" who used 
to pace up and down the historic deck, may sit alone 
and hum to himself: 

"Oh, I am the Ralph and the Josephine, 
And the Captain — and what's more, 
The Buttercup and the Dick Deadeye, 
Of the antique Pinafore. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 317 

Don't look so scared — I'm giving it straight — 

I'm the band and the chorus, too, 
As well as the ruler of the Queen's navee: 

I began when the piece was new." 



AFTER THE PINAFORE UNFURLED ITS SAILS 

"It was thoroughly demonstrated last night that 'Pina- 
fore,' Gilbert and Sullivan's most popular production, has 
obtained a wonderful hold upon the theater-going public, 
and that light, clean, witty and brilliant musical pieces will 
be the most popular style of entertainment for some time 
to come. Much was expected of this production of 'Pina- 
fore,' the cast being headed by such well-known names as 
Barnabee, Whitney and Karl, and judging from the generous 
applause bestowed by the very large audience present, the 
highest expectations were realized. The theater was over- 
crowded by an audience composed of Boston's best people, 
many appearing in full dress. The cast was the best the piece 
has ever received, at least in a musical point of view. The 
stage was finely set, the scene showing a fore-and-aft view 
and two masts of the ship with all the rigging complete, and 
on the raising of the curtain a full male chorus of about 
thirty-five, with several seamen in the rigging, were discov- 
ered, and Her Majesty's ship thus presented was a fine look- 
ing vessel. When Sir Joseph Porter entered he was accom- 
panied by seven marines and twenty-four young ladies 
who personated his 'sisters, cousins and aunts,' and the 
bright, pretty costumes of the ladies contrasted with the 
bright red of the marines, and the regulation dress of the 
sailors made a beautiful picture. All the artists were 
warmly received, Messrs. Whitney and Barnabee especially. 
Mr. Barnabee played Sir Joseph Porter in a quiet but effec- 
tive manner, and the delicate humor of the part was made 



318 REMINISCENCES OF 

the most of, while many of the broader features were sup- 
pressed. In the song 'The Ruler of the Queen's Navee,' Mr. 
Barnabee introduced a new and taking verse relative to 
Sir Joseph's natural inclination for water when a child. 
Mr. M. W. Whitney's Capt. Corcoran was a revelation to 
his friends, who had never before heard the gentleman in 
anything similar. The music of the part was sung in a full, 
thorough, yet breezy manner, and the wonderful range of 
his voice was demonstrated by the fact that very little of 
the music, which was written for a tenor, had to be trans- 
posed. Several of his solos, including the 'Fair Moon' at 
the opening of the second act, elicited encores. His acting 
was a little stiff, but this will wear off after a few perform- 
ances. Mr. Tom Karl sang and acted Ralph Rackstraw 
in a most excellent manner. His bright, clear, ringing voice 
was heard to good advantage in all his solos, and the ballad, 
'A Maiden Fair to See,' was given in a manner which we have 
not heard equalled, and deserved the hearty encore it re- 
ceived. The Josephine of the evening was Miss Mary 
Beebe, who on this occasion made her first appearance on 
the stage proper. She has a clear, pleasing soprano voice 
of some culture and a fair amount of power. Her solos, 
with the exception of the scena in the second act, the music 
of which she forgot for a moment, were all well sung, and 
the duet, 'Refrain, Audacious Tar,' between Josephine and 
Ralph, was finely given. Her dressing of the part was the 
best we have seen, both her costumes being in excellent 
taste. Mme. Isabella McCulloch made her reappearance 
in this city after a long absence, and, judging from her 
reception, was well and pleasantly remembered. She sang 
'Buttercup' in a very pleasing manner, and received her 
share of the applause of the evening. Miss Georgia Cayvan 
was a pretty and pert little Hebe, and acted and dressed 
the part in good taste. The Boatswain of Mr. Arthur B. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 319 

Hitchcock was the weakest feature of the cast, his singing 
of 'He is an Englishman' being hardly up to the average. 
Mr. Frothingham repeated his familiar and excellent imper- 
sonation of Deadeye, though a little toning down of the 
character is advisable. The chorus was excellent. At the 
close of the first act a regular ovation took place. 'Pinafore' 
will be the attraction until further notice." — Boston Post, 
Tuesday Morning, April 15, 1879. 

"Boston Theatre. — An immense audience, that filled the 
spacious building from top to bottom, assembled at this 
house last night to witness the first performance of the 
popular opera 'Pinafore,' by the troupe of favorite singers 
of Boston, whose appearance has been so long anticipated. 
Even standing room was gladly accepted by hundreds of 
persons, and the wall surrounding the parquet circle was 
lined with a triple row of interested auditors. The perform- 
ance was one fully meriting this pronounced manifestation 
of interest, and by it 'Pinafore' has undoubtedly gained a 
new lease of life in the favor of our amusement patrons. 
The audience, moreover, was composed of our most intelli- 
gent people; of people who understand the sources of excel- 
lence in music, and who are enthusiastic only after their 
critical faculty has been disarmed and their consciousness 
of what is good is satisfied. That such an audience as this 
should be wrought up by the entertainment to a point of 
absolute approval is indication enough that the opera itself 
has been revivified, and that those who presented it have 
excelled all their predecessors in the same field; and these 
have been numerous enough and meritorious enough to make 
the new effort somewhat perilous, if it had not been under- 
taken by actors and singers of undoubted ability. It may 
have seemed singular to some — indeed, we have heard it 
suggested — that artists of such celebrity in other and more 
classical fields should have consented to let their light shine 



3£0 REMINISCENCES OF 

on the 'Pinafore's' deck, but for our part, thinking as highly 
of the opera as we do, we cannot believe that they will gain 
anything but credit from this new departure. Many people 
make the mistake of considering 'Pinafore' a burlesque, 
and that word is, unhappily, suggestive of rather objec- 
tionable surroundings. Several good companies have badly 
mangled 'Pinafore' by treating it as of this class of composi- 
tion, for while irresistibly comical, it is not bouffe, and re- 
quires to be handled with great care lest its delicate propor- 
tions be marred and its subtle quality of humor be lost. 
Moreover, it is constructed on principles foreign to opera 
bouffe. Its method is that of the classical operas, and its 
most exquisite satire lies in its imitation of the absurdities 
of such composition — and that they have these absurdities 
nobody who compares their artificiality with the occurrences 
and emotions of real life will be disposed to deny. Solos and 
choruses, duets and quartettes, and the other arrangement 
of voices which occur in classical operas are here duly pre- 
sented, and one follows the other according to rule, and the 
whole motive of the work is directed by long-established 
precedent. To secure the highest development of the humor 
of the piece requires a knowledge of the more familiar operas, 
a receptive mind which shall unquestioningly regard the 
absurdities of the piece as so many real and sober facts, and 
a skill in acting and singing, and a faculty of repression 
which shall always hold a check over the inclination which 
exists in most men to attempt to improve the work of others. 
Such a combination of requirements can be found only in 
actors of a very wide experience or in those of a rare intelli- 
gence, and while some of last night's singers possess the for- 
mer quality in a marked degree, most of them gained their 
success from their exercise of the latter. It is to such per- 
formers, then, as Messrs. Barnabee, Whitney and Karl and 
to Miss Beebe and Madame McCulloch that we ought to 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 321 

look for the best presentation of the opera, and it is perhaps 
needless to say that last night's entertainment was perfectly 
successful when these people presented it. 

"Musically considered, nothing is left to be desired, 
and the singing of Mr. Sullivan's measures was a revelation 
to us, and doubtless to many others. Justice has not been 
done here before to the beautiful music of the opera, but the 
voices which rendered it last night gave it a new charm. 
The sweetest measures fell to Mr. Karl, who took the part 
of Ralph Rackstraw, and all of his solos were encored, and 
a repetition demanded of most of the choruses in which his 
voice was prominent. He was in excellent spirits and voice, 
and it was a rare pleasure to hear his sympathetic rendering 
of the music. Mr. Whitney, as Captain Corcoran, excited 
great enthusiasm, and in 'make up' and acting, as well as 
in singing, he established his claim to being considered the 
best captain of the 'Pinafore' who has appeared in this city. 
His magnificent voice held the audience spellbound, and his 
quiet and natural acting added much to the pleasure of the 
audience. His song in the first act, where he appears among 
his crew and exchanges the compliments of the day, his song 
to the moon in the second act and his duets with Little 
Buttercup and Dick Deadeye were especially well received, 
and besides receiving encores he was presented with a large 
floral anchor and a bouquet of choice flowers. Mr. Barnabee 
gave a careful and sympathetic interpretation of the part 
of Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., and represented the eccen- 
tricities of that stuffy functionary very pleasingly. In the 
laudable endeavor not to burlesque the character he seemed 
to fall into the other extreme, and at times his acting ap- 
peared somewhat constrained. There were plenty of indi- 
cations, however, that when he has gained a little closer 
identification with the character he will allow his own amus- 
ing personality to appear a little more, when nothing will 



322 REMINISCENCES OF 

be left to be desired in the part. He sang the music of the 
part with great care and expression, and on the whole the 
high anticipation which the knowledge of his coming appear- 
ance had excited was fully justified. Mr. George Frothing- 
ham made a most comical Dick Deadeye, and the other 
male characters were well taken. Miss Mary Beebe as 
Josephine created a most favorable impression, and acted 
and sang in a most acceptable manner. Her songs were 
warmly encored, and the only blemish in her performance 
occurred in the second act, where she and the orchestra 
displayed a division of interests and attempted to present 
two different parts of the song at once and signally failed to 
produce an agreeable result. Several handsome floral 
tributes were presented to her. Mrs. Georgia Cay van as 
Hebe gave a capital presentation of Sir Joseph's first cousin, 
and Madame Isabella McCulloch as Little Buttercup 
sang and acted charmingly. At the end of the first act all 
the leading actors were called before the curtain and loudly 
cheered. The chorus of some fifty voices was most excellent 
and added much to the interest of the occasion. The scenery 
and stage appointments were elaborate and appropriate, 
and every accessory — with the exception of the marines, 
whose drill is not all that could be desired — was in keeping 
with the requirements of the opera. Performances will be 
given every night and on Saturday afternoons till further 
notice, and the demands at the box office show a promise 
of large audiences during this week at least." — Boston Jour- 
nal, Tuesday Evening, April 15, 1879. 

"It is difficult to overstate the interest felt by the musical 
public of this vicinity in the - performance of the popular 
'H. M. S. Pinafore' at the Boston Theater last evening, 
and it is a pleasure to chronicle the fact that all the bright 
anticipations concerning the event were more than realized. 
The house presented an appearance unlike anything save 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 323 

upon a Gerster night during the Mapleson season. Musical 
Boston turned out en masse and filled the theater from pit 
to dome, surged out into the lobbies, and got up to a pitch 
of enthusiasm during the evening that is seldom indulged 
in by the conservative Bostonians save on very special 
occasions. The 'ideal' crew were furnished with an ideal 
ship, and when the curtain went up and showed a full-rigged 
man-of-war, with a full crew engaged in the duties incidental 
to preparing for receiving an 'official' visit, the audience 
gave expression to their appreciation by the most generous 
applause. The stage was clear to the 'gridiron,' and the 
scene showed from the mainmast, looking aft, with the full 
rigging in sight, the deck set with guns, a 'practical' cabin 
and quarterdeck, boats swung from davits on either side, 
and all the fitting in the way of a full-rigged vessel. The 
men were aloft and on deck, and everything had an air of 
reality about it. The entrance of Capt. M. W. Whitney 
Corcoran was the signal for an immense outburst of applause, 
and when Sir Joseph Porter Barnabee came over the side 
it seemed as if the audience could not fully express its feel- 
ings. Lack of space prevents any detailed reference to the 
incidents of the evening; suffice it to say, in a general way, 
that the performers found every effort responded to by an 
audience with that electric appreciation which goes so far 
to make such an event enjoyable alike before and behind 
the footlights. Mr. Barnabee was given the head line on 
the playbills, and he earned the distinction. His Sir Joseph 
is absolutely inimitable, for he alone has succeeded in making 
the keen satire of the part apparent. His conception is ab- 
solutely a revelation of his dramatic abilities. Mr. Whitney's 
Captain was what might be expected musically, but few 
imagined that he would make such a complete dramatic 
success of the character as he did, his acting of the part, after 
a few moments of apparent nervousness, being all that could 



324 REMINISCENCES OF 

be desired. Mr. Tom Karl proved a very valuable acqui- 
sition as the Ralph of the cast, and gave a thoroughly fin- 
ished personation. Mr. George Frothingham, it need not 
be said, was admirable as ever in Dick Deadeye, and the 
audience fully appreciated his capital acting as well as his 
good singing. Miss Mary Beebe, the Josephine of the cast, 
is comparatively a newcomer to Boston audiences, but she 
will have a hearty welcome hereafter, as she has a soprano 
voice of great purity, and though not large in volume, of 
such telling qualities that it filled the theatre, and stood 
out prominently in the concerted music. Mme. McCulloch 
made a success of the part of Little Buttercup, and Miss 
Cayvan was as pert and pretty a Hebe as can be found 
in any of the forty odd companies enlisted in the duty of 
presenting 'Pinafore' throughout the country." — Boston 
Herald. 



Chapter XXIX 



ROUNDING OUT A REPERTOIRE 

"'FATINITZA." — BAENABEE, A POLYGAMIST. — BREAD UPON 
THE WATERS.— BRIGHT PROSPECTS AND A REVIEW. 

"I think it is folly to train, upon the set views of others, artistes who show 
any capacity for producing good original work." — John Hare. 

ON the Monday of our tenth week, "Fatinitza," 
an operatic frivolity which had suffered some 
rough treatment, from a musical and artistic 
point of view, was given an opportunity to redeem 
itself. Beebe, Phillips, Whitney, Karl and Barnabee 
constituted a quintette quite capable of taking care of 
the music, even though two or three of them were not 
so long since graduated from the church choir. 

Whitney, the foremost American basso of his time, 
and hardly equalled perhaps in Europe, had a concert 
and oratorio reputation, but was new to opera. Ade- 
laide Phillips, then in her prime, was a glorious con- 
tralto, English-born, but reared in America, and sent 
abroad as a young girl to study under Garcia. She 
had won her operatic laurels in the old Academy of 
Music, New York, when La Grange was the favorite 
prima donna; and later with Wachtel and Parepa 
Rosa. 

325 



326 REMINISCENCES OF 

Our "Fatinitza," as a whole, was scarcely less suc- 
cessful than the "Pinafore" which had preceded it. 
Beebe, as Lydia, was charming; Phillips, as Vladimir, 
and Whitney as Kanchtukoff, surpassed themselves; 
Karl, the Reporter, was fine and dashing; while 
H. C. B. made a very popular Pasha, and Frothingham 
contributed a frothy bit of fun as a dialect Sergeant. 
"Fatinitza" remained in our repertoire some twelve 
years — for this was the turning point at which Miss 
Ober decided to go regularly into business as a pioneer 
female impresario — and although its cast changed, its 
luck never did. 

The harem scene with the Pasha and his four wives 
we tackled with some trepidation, as being possibly 
a trifle risque; but Bostonian tact and delicacy saved 
the situation, so that blushes had little or no mantling 
to do on the cheek of modesty. 

Indeed, inasmuch as the wives were changed each 
season, and we kept the piece a-going twelve years, it 
is clear that I must have managed those forty-eight 
disturbers of family harmony with a discretion calcu- 
lated to excite the envy of any Mormon . saint, or 
furnish pointers to that quartette of shades, my illus- 
trious predecessors, Solomon, David, Bluebeard, 
and Brigham Young. 

The next season — practically our first full campaign 
as a permanently organized opera company — Tom 
Karl was lured away from us by the siren song of 
Emma Abbott, and so we had to drag the net to find 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 327 

someone, somehow, to replace him. Miss Ober's 
magic bureau was equal to the emergency, and yielded 
another prize-package in the person of Mr. W. H. 
Fessenden, whose delicious tenor had often scintillated 
against my cavernous bass on the concert stage. 

The old English duet, "Robin Ruff," as intoned by 
"Fess" and myself, was a proverbial compeller of 
pathos. 

In "Fatinitza," at the risk of upsetting the artistic 
equilibrium of the harem scene, Mr. Fessenden as the 
Reporter delighted to spring an irrelevant but stirring 
song, entitled "My Native Land," words by himself, 
music by Suppe, though the latter was written for 
something as far removed from comic opera as oratorio 
is from ragtime. It was supposed to express an exile's 
yearning for home-chicken, after a sojourn in Turkey- 
land. When he did finally leave the Bostonians, it 
was to swear allegiance to Mrs. Jeannette Thurber's 
ill-starred American Opera Company. 

Though Fessenden did not make quite so handsome 
a sailor as Tom Karl, nor take to the "high C's" as 
readily, he was, nevertheless, a thoroughly able comic- 
opera seaman, and could spin a musical yarn or capti- 
vate a Captain's Daughter with the best of them. 

In the harem scene of "Fatinitza" "Fess" and I 
were required to absorb capacious schooners of sup- 
posed champagne, which was really star vintage Apolli- 
naris tinged with ginger ale to give it color, but served 
in genuine labeled bottles which had once held veritable 



328 REMINISCENCES OF 

"sec" and "brut." It was a formidable dose, but I 
used to take it in, for the sake of art and verisimilitude. 

Not so Fessenden, the wily Reporter. With a look 
of ineffable disgust on his face, he would turn his back 
to the audience, stand close up to the wing, take one 
sip, and heave the remainder on the floor of the scenery. 

One night, feeling in the mood, I prepared an ex- 
travagant surprise for "Fess." I fixed it with the 
property-man to serve real Pommery Sec instead of 
the usual slop-wash. All the company were "on," 
and watched from the wings. The Reporter took 
his glass with the same old look of loathing, but the 
instant his lips touched the sparkling fluid his eyes 
bulged out, then disappeared beneath his massive 
brow, his head tilted back, and the pint of O-be- 
joyful was out of sight in the twinkling of a lamb's 
tail, while the company looked on and held their sides, 
and "Fess" realized that he had had the best of the 
joke. 

Another joke which was aimed at the "champagne" 
and one which always brought forth a storm of ap- 
plause was one which I introduced a number of 
seasons later. As the newspaper correspondent and 
myself were doing our drinking stunt, I stopped short, 
and turning to the emissary of the press said: 

"This champagne is an orphan." 

"Why so?" was the query. 

"Because it has lost its pop." 

Even to this day some vaudeville players carry 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



329 



this joke along with them and spring it whenever a 
bottle of sparkling fluid is uncorked. 

I shall never forget what happened at Detroit in 
1887 when the Bostonians were presenting "Fatinitza" 
before a large and aristocratic audience. The offering 
was almost spectacular. The first act, showing a 
Russian outpost, had wagons, cannon balls and other 
warlike effects to complete the picture. When Ser- 
geant Steipan converted his company into a theatrical 
troupe, two of the chorus girls came out with Detroit 
baseball uniforms on, and it took two minutes for the 
patriotism of the audience to subside. Then the im- 
provised actors attempted an evolution, but the 
balloon hoops of one young woman caught in the 
buckle of a Detroit baseball belt and stayed there, 
and again the audience recreated. The actors marched 
off the stage, but the spectators called them back, 
and the young woman's hoops were held where they 
belonged by a large pole which another member of 
the company carried. 

The harem scene of the well-known operatic creation 
was always a winner. We endeavored to present it in 
its true Oriental way. The curtains, for instance, 
were of rich oriental stuff in a confused blending of 
colors. The divans, real harem affairs, were uphol- 
stered in brocaded blue and gold colored silk, with 
red satin, hand-painted pillows. There was a super- 
abundance of Turkish rugs and bric-a-brac, and two 
ebony tables with silver mounting completed the 



330 REMINISCENCES^OF 

decorations — that is, the inanimate decorations. Four 
pretty girls, supposed to be my wives, were elaborately 
attired in white lace bodices, trousers and veils, with 
sandals of a golden color. The skirt of one of the 
wives was of pale blue satin, with silver trimmings; 
that of another almond color and hand-painted. The 
third was of cardinal, with gold trimmings, and the 
last, white satin and hand-painted. 

In the midst of all this Oriental grandeur was "yours 
truly" clothed in red trousers and cap, black gold- 
trimmed coat and white waistcoat, and endeavoring 
to be a reformed Turk, with a penchant for punning, 
singing, dancing and otherwise entertaining and de- 
lighting a harem and an audience. 

To use the words of one of the critics of the time — 
"Everything, except Barnabee's smile and his dancing 
step, was expressly imported from Turkey." 

But let us proceed on "our first big tour." With the 
two operatic conveyances, "Pinafore" and "Fatinitza," 
and the lady manager still occupying the driver's 
seat, we started out on a "tower" of the New England 
cities and towns, making good impressions and adding 
to the plethora of the managerial strong-box. Then we 
continued our trip in the same direction that the 
Star of Empire was wending its way, and penetrated 
as far west as Cincinnati — a city then supposed to be, 
in the proud imaginations of its cultured populace, 
the center and pivot of the musical universe. 

We made a host of friends there, but in the end 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 331 

discovered that the "lager beer cities" — that is to say, 
those distinguished by the prevalence of the German 
element — were very partial to the "moosic ov das 
Faderland," and did not take so kindly to the American 
article. In consequence, though we stuck to them with 
a perseverance worthy of a better reward, and scru- 
pulously fulfilled the managerial laic, the profits failed 
noticeably to materialize. 

On our return from Porkopolis we repeated the 
cities and the railroad-tarik towns en route, realizing 
the advantage of having cast our bread upon the 
waters; for, before many days, it was returned to us 
in big houses and a proportionate distribution of the 
circulating medium and public appreciation. 

We invaded New York and Brooklyn territory, in 
this campaign of education, playing at the now for- 
gotten Niblo's Garden in the first-named stand, and 
the old Academy of Music in the latter. The oldest 
inhabitant today may treasure a memory of those 
brief visitations, and a stray, yellowing program or 
two in the junk-shop preserve their record; but to all 
intents and purposes they were as "the baseless fabric 
of a vision," and left not a wrack behind. Subsequently 
we made appearances at Booth's Theater, Sixth Avenue 
and Twenty-Third Street, and at the Fifth Avenue 
Theater, which never was on Fifth Avenue, but a block 
or two distant, in the Rue West Twentj'-Eighth. These 
"angels' visits, short and far between," made no over- 
whelming impression, either, but we clinched them later. 



332 - REMINISCENCES OF 

The demise of the 1879-'80 season occurred when 
Nature was awakening to new vernal life, and we our- 
selves had the means of rejoicing in our hearts and the 
treasury. We felt as did the fellow who received a 
large inheritance on the death of a relative, and, in 
answer to telegraphed inquiries as to the nature of the 
complaint of which the testator had died, answered: 

"No complaint — everybody satisfied." 

The next season to come was already budding with 
promise. In addition to the vocal forces already 
mustered, we expected Tom Karl to return to his 
allegiance with us, and Marie Stone to take her 
proper place in our galaxy of stars that sang together. 
Other operas were in preparation to bulge out our 
repertoire. Our sphere of influence was to be likewise 
expanded in a longer route. In short, everything 
looked lovely to the Bostonian vision, and the tradi- 
tional goose hung at an altitude almost beyond reach. 

Doubtless the kind readers who are following me 
thus far at the highest rate of interest in my devious 
paths of reminiscence, are living in eager hopes of 
something really exciting in the calamitous line. 

Perhaps you are looking for freaks of "most dis- 
astrous chance"; for "the trials, dangers, fortunes I 
have passed" — What? Moving accidents by flood and 
field; stuck in snowdrifts and shovelled out; trying 
to pass another train coming from opposite direction 
on the same track; held up by sheriff, and box-office 
receipts garnished; company walking home over 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 333 

dreary stretches of railroad ties, and if in winter, 
putting on gum shoes so as not to be heard sneaking 
into town; stranded in alien hotels with weeping chorus 
ladies clamoring for money enough to pay board and 
washing, and get trinkets out of pawn; authors and 
composers close at our heels for that tendon of Achilles 
known as back royalties; defaulting treasurer taking 
to the woods with gross receipts; railroads holding 
personal baggage, costumes and scenery until we put 
up or shut up; orchestra knocking, stringing, blowing, 
or striking for home or more money; new production 
advertised, house sold out, scenery arriving in the 
cold gray dawn of the morning after; wars of the 
prima donnas, and battles of the lesser luminaries; 
tenor unable to sing for reasons beyond his control, or 
for no reason at all; soubrette's pet dog run over by 
a bicycle; only two dressing-rooms and hysterical 
comedy old woman declaring she will not dress with a 
chorus girl; ten weeks of rehearsal, ten nights of frost- 
bitten performance, ten dollars apiece for principals, 
and one dollar each for the rest of the company, etc., 
etc., etc. If such be your anticipation, gentle Zitella, 
prepare for disappointment. I am sorry, but I cannot 
cast any such offerings before you. 

The remarkable fact is, that throughout all my 
operatic career I never belonged to but one company, 
and that one was never "up against" adverse circum- 
stances of the foregoing comprehensive description. 

Our record was unique in many ways. During the 



334 REMINISCENCES OF 

entire life of the organization, under the name of the 
"Ideals" first and of the "Bostonians" later, we never 
jumped a Saturday pay-day — with the possible ex- 
ception of a bad spell or two in our unfortunate last 
year, when, instead of continuing to look diligently 
after our own household affairs, we were persuaded to 
put our trust in a Trust, with all the expensive luxuries 
and complications "touchin' on and appertainin' to" 
such a connection. 

Of course there were times when we had to turn out 
with a scraper and hustle in all the loose change that 
might be tying about and not working; but we always 
contrived to keep within the pale of solvency, and to 
dope up the poor old ghost so that he could walk his 
weekly round. 

The condition of the walking was a matter of indif- 
ference to us; we had no clay sticking to our shoes, 
nor fringe on our garments, unless in its proper place. 
We never lost but two engagements, and one piece of 
baggage, so far as I recollect. Only one sheriff, he of 
Nottingham, ever made free with our belongings; 
and the attachment effected by him was one which 
bound the company and the public in closer and lasting 
bonds of respect, sympathy and affection. 

In all the years "out" of our large company, only 
five passed on. Our orchestra struck only harmonious 
chords, and proved ever a loyal band. 

We encountered one flood on the Mississippi, but 
that was more picturesque and interesting than danger- 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 335 

ous. Our train seemed to float through a wild Western 
Venice, passing homes, cabins and barns, half sub- 
merged, with their occupants perched on the roofs or 
gazing from upper story windows, and nonchalantly 
munching quinine. 

We skirted the edge of various railway accidents, 
but were never actually mixed up in one, beyond a 
jolt or two, and an insignificant "crockery crash." 
Our relations with the railroad companies were uni- 
formly amicable. We never were able to beat them, 
and they kindly refrained from ruining us. They did 
give us rebates occasionally — also short cars when we 
wanted, and paid for, long ones. 

In short, our traveling company had very much the 
aspect of a large family party out on a picnic jaunt, 
with incidental performances evenings just for the fun 
of the thing. 

On the railroad journey by day, our special car 
was a continuous improvised vaudeville show. Every- 
body did "stunts," of the most variegated description. 
As a sort of combined father, uncle, dean and mentor 
of the bunch, I was dignified with the prefix of "Mr." 
attached to my common nickname, "Barney." Mr. 
Barney chipped in with the youngest and merriest 
in all these frolics; and our range of music on long 
Sunday rides between, say, Minneapolis, Minnesota, 
and Williamsburg, New York, was all the way.^from 
coon-songs to Beethoven. Birthdays,*Thanksgivings 
and Christmas holidays never suffered -neglectlfrom 



336 REMINISCENCES OF 

us — on the contrary, we were always ready to go out 
of our way to "whoop them up" for all they were 
worth. 

Our fellow countrymen throughout the land seemed 
to take us in the same spirit in which we came to them. 
We were received with open arms everywhere. The 
advent of the Ideals was the event of the season; and 
pretty much everything in the line of current duties 
and engagements, except births, was postponed in 
favor of our date. 

We were breakfasted, lunched, dined, wined, supped, 
stuffed and junketed by the best representatives of 
wit, music and hospitality, in all sections of this fair 
land, until good digestion began to balk at waiting on 
appetite, and health stood in abeyance, looking on the 
riot with fearsome gastronomical forebodings. 

The male contingent was "clubbed" in every city, 
after the opera, with such cordiality that some of us 
had to hustle to pull ourselves together for the next 
evening's performance. The press clubs were busier at 
"boosting" us, than at "knocking"; and we acquired 
ponderous scrap-book tomes filled with notices that 
made a sinecure of the publicity-promoter's job. 

I have always felt grateful in my heart of hearts 
to the "boys" of the pen and pencil fraternity for the 
spontaneous appreciation, the never-failing encourage- 
ment^they have dealt out. One of my art treasures, 
which hangs before my eyes as I pen these lines, is 
a painting by the gifted Harold Frederic, afterward a 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 337 

noted London newspaper correspondent, and a suc- 
cessful novelist under the pseudonym of "J. S., of Dale." 
This picture is a pre-Raphaelite representation of Tom 
Karl and myself as saints niched in cathedral aisle, 
with the Rev. Edward A. Terry — one of the best- 
beloved Catholic priests of Northern New York State 
gazing up at us in an attitude of adoration, while 
Frederic himself, in the guise of an acolyte, is busy 
burning candles and incense before the shrine. 

In such a large collection of chords and discords 
as our organization involved, it would be manifestly 
absurd to pretend that "family jars" were unknown. 
On the contrary, we had them in as many varieties 
as there are of canned pickles — only they were not as 
extensively advertised as are the Heinz varieties. 

Not infrequently there would be seismatic indica- 
tions of operatic disturbances — shrill soprano and 
deeper contralto complaints, baritone barkings, tenor 
obligatos of fault-finding, and portentous basso rum- 
blings and the like — but these were only passing summer 
storms, stirring up little clouds of dust, which a few 
tearful showers and the gentle breeze of managerial 
diplomacy soon dissipated. Anon the sun of mirth 
would shine out with renewed splendor, and, in the 
words of Longfellow, paraphrased: 

"The night would be filled with music. 
And the cares that infested the matinee 
Would fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away." 



338 REMINISCENCES OF 

Also the "long fellow" who is now reminiscing would 
stand like a good Samaritan by the bedside of the sick 
and the wounded, with chunks of consolation and 
taffy in one hand, and a cup of rhubarb tea in t'other. 



Chapter XXX 



THE IDEALS DURING|THEtOBER REGIME 

LIST OF OPERAS. — DEATH OF ADELAIDE PHILLIPS. — NEW 
VOICES, NEW OFFERINGS, NEW TERRITORY. — MYRON 
WHITNEY WITHDRAWS. — MISS OBER SAYS "GOOD- 
BYE." 

"No other aggregation of professionals under the title 'Ideals' could hope to 
usurp the peculiar place which these Ideate have secured in the hearts of the 
people." — Buffalo Critic. 

IT is perhaps enough to chronicle that during the six 
years that our destinies were ruled by woman, in 
the energetic person of Miss Ober, we added to our 
repertoire, besides "Pinafore" and "Fatinitza" afore- 
mentioned, such classics, or near classics, as the 
following: 

Name Musical Composer Uarnabcc's Role 

The Sorcerer Sir Arthur Sullivan John Wellington Wells, a 

Boccaccio, or Prince of sorcerer 

Palmero Franz von Suppe . . . . Lambert uceio, a grocer 

Olivette Edmund Audran .... Due des Ifs 

The Mascot Edmund Audran .... Lorenzo XVII, Prince of 

Piombino 

Czar and Carpenter Gustav Lortzing 

Bohemian Girl Michael Balfe Florestein, a nephew 

Chimes of Normandy 

(Belles of Corneville) . .Robert Planquette . . . Baillie, the bailiff 

The Musketeers (V) Abbe Bridaine 

Pirates of Penzance, or 

Slave of Duty Sir Arthur Sullivan . Major-General Stanley 

Patience, or Bunt home's 

Bride Sir Arthur Sullivan . . Reginald Bunthorne, a poet 

Marriage of Figaro Wolfgang Mozart 

339 



340 REMINISCENCES OF 

Name Musical Composer Barnabee's Role 

Fra Diavolo Daniel Auber Lord Allcash, an English 

traveler 

The Weathercock 

Girofie-Girofla Charles Lecocq Don Bolero D' Alcarazas, 

, Spanish nobleman 

Barbe-Bleue Jacques Offenbach . . King Bobeche 

Martha Friedrich von Flotow 

Fanchonette Gaston Serpette .... Hector de Caramelle 

Giralda Adolphe Adams Don Japhet, Lord Cham- 
berlain 

L'Elisir d' Amour, or the 

Elixir of Love Gaetano Donizetti . . Dr. Dulcamara, a quack 

Victor, the Blue Stocking Bernicat & Messager . Marquis de Palsambleu 

In all these hazards we picked but one failure — that 
made-in-France mechanical toy, "The Weathercock." 
With it we knew at once which way the wind blew. 
"The Weathercock" was a "vane" effort; so we with- 
drew it from the storm of public opinion. 

In scanning the list of operas we tackled, it will 
no doubt strike the reader that between Offenbach's 
"Barbe-Bleue" and Mozart's "Marriage of Figaro" 
there is something of a musical chasm. So there is! 
But we bridged it and got safely across. 

Following "Fatinitza," Adelaide Phillips had three 
successive good roles — as Lady Sangazure, Boccaccio 
and Germaine — roles differing widely in style and 
scope, yet each of which brought out new demon- 
strations of her artistic resources and knowledge of 
stagecraft. 

At the close of our second season this admirable 
artiste went to Europe in the hope of building up her 
shattered health. But alas! she never returned. She 
died in France during the month of October, 1882. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 341 

A truly great character, Adelaide Phillips has left 
behind a widely cherished remembrance, not only of 
a gifted singer and actress, but also of a noble, womanly 
lady whose great heart, with its capacities for loving 
and enduring, communicated an indescribable pathos 
to her voice and serious song, and attuned it well to 
the eternal harmonies of the "choir invisible." 

Allow me to place before you a feeling tribute from 
one of Miss Phillips' dearest friends — Miss Ober. 

"To my mind, Miss Phillips was one of the most remark- 
able and beautiful women in her character that ever lived. 
She gave to the world at large the example of a glorious 
artist, and the musical world is better because she has lived. 
But brilliant as was her public life, she shone the brightest 
in her own home. The dependence and comfort of all, with 
heart to love and brain to direct, she moved a very presiding 
spirit in their midst. No self-sacrifice was too great, no 
amount of love too intense to be showered on this home of 
her heart, where the fullest return of love and honor were 
given her in return. She died as sweetly as she had lived, 
suffering no pain — only weariness, and had lain down 
to rest, with no warning whatever that the end was near. 
She fell asleep quietly and awoke in another world — weary 
no longer." 

After the death of Miss Phillips her mantle fell 
upon her sister, Mathilde Phillips, who justified the 
prestige of her name with a fine contralto voice and 
method, and filled the void in our company as accept- 
ably as possible. 

There were but two more changes, after this, during 



342 REMINISCENCES OF 

the Ober regime. Mr. Herndon Morsell replaced Mr. 
Fessenden, the tenor; and Miss Geraldine Ulmar, 
with demurely pretty face, midnight eyes, and youth- 
ful voice, came to alternate prima donna roles. 

This young lady subsequently became the inimit- 
able Yum- Yum of the "Mikado," before Japanese 
progress had rendered that delightful piece obsolete. 
Then she went to London, enjoyed a brief but rnuch- 
talked-of career, and finally was swallowed up in the 
vortex of matrimony. 

To return to the Ego of this scattered narrative, it 
may be recorded that one of my own fortunate roles 
was that of the "dealer in magic and spells," in "The 
Sorcerer" where I had a very serviceable song begin- 
ning "My name is John Wellington Wells," and 
introduced rather an original bit of refrigerated stage 
business. After a descent into Hades, I was run up 
again on the trap, seated on a cake of real ice, 
wearing a linen duster and a straw hat, and agitating 
an enormous fan — an apparition which never failed to 
give momentary comfort and joy to my audience. 

Two uncongenial characters upon which I wasted 
my time and alleged talents were the Bailie in "The 
Chimes of Normandy," and Florestan of the "Bo- 
hemian Girl." As I look back upon the latter, in 
particular, I despair of imagining anything more 
grotesque than my lank and gawky incarnation of the 
effeminate Florrie. 

It was positively cruel! The Bailie was not quite 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 343 

so bad, but it was a misfit. One night, in a fond but 
misguided endeavor to build up the part downwards, 
I interpolated "Simon the Cellarer." I shall never 
forget Miss Ober's look of mingled anger, pity and 
disgust, as she stood dumbfounded in the wings. 
That ended Simon as an adjunct to the "Chimes," 
but all the other characters rang true. Marie Stone 
proved herself a gem; and Whitney, as the old Miser, 
gloated over his gold as if he had been manager of 
the show, after a month of bad business. 

We had great larks with the "Bohemian Girl" 
one night in Chillicothe, Ohio. The principal comed- 
ians, not being required in the cast, were left out; 
whereupon the local manager thought he was being 
cheated, and threatened to cancel the engagement. 
To calm his perturbed spirit, we told him he might 
announce that "to strengthen the cast," Messrs. 
Barnabee and Frothingham and the two unemployed 
tenors had kindly consented to appear as the Four 
Supers, or Guardians of the Castle. 

This big- type announcement filled the house; and 
we played our. menial parts just as they have been 
played from time immemorial, only more so — that is 
to say, we invariably did the wrong things at the wrong 
times, and did them so badly — well, that Marie Stone 
stood upon the stairs and looked down in dismay at 
the chaotic stage-setting, exclaiming: 

"Will you just look at that Henry Barnabee and 
George Frothingham ! as long as they have been on the 



344 REMINISCENCES OF 

stage, not knowing how to set that table and those 
chairs right!" 

All the others were "on," but came very near giving 
the snap away by failing to keep their faces straight 
when we, "The Big Four," came in with our outrageous 
antics. But the big audience howled with delight, 
and the manager was satisfied he had given them their 
money's worth. 

We wound up that hilarious evening, after the final 
curtain by "rounding up" the fair prima donna on 
the stage, and compelling her to pour libations of beer 
for the company, as a penalty for not having seen 
through the joke. Joining hands in a ring, we circled 
round Miss Stone in a weird dance, singing lustily the 
following incantation : 

Bis. — O Marie, O Marie, we pray you, 

Bring those beautiful mugs from the bar! 

One, two, three, four, 
Bring those beautiful, etc. 

Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten 

(Repeat, same order.) 
She'll do it! She'll do it! 
She never was known to refuse it. You bet! 
Bis. — Tra la la, la la la del, 

La la del, la la del, la la, 
La la la la, la, la! 

Bing! ! 

"Boccaccio," "Olivette," "Bluebeard" and "Gir- 
alda" were four operas on our list which might have 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 345 

been called, in the language of "la belle France," des 
succes d'estime — or, near successes. All paid fairly 
well, some fifty, some sixty, and some a hundredfold. 
In each of them, somebody came to the front, and in 
none did I conspicuously occupy a back seat. Each 
was good for one or two nights iD the weekly repertoire. 
Still, the discriminating public was bound to have its 
preference, and to put its money on the favorites. 

"Czar and Carpenter" and "Martha" were about 
in the same category as the four pieces above named, 
so far as popularity was concerned; but artistically 
they were above par. Whitney's "Porter Song" and 
Marie Stone's "Last Rose of Summer" are remembered 
yet. 

"The Pirates of Penzance" was a standard perform- 
ance with us, and remained in our list for twelve 
years. But the major-general's famous patter song 
was a third degree terror for me. It was the first real 
crack I had had at rapid-transit elocution, and quite 
sufficed to satisfy my ambition in that line. The 
thing got to be positively an obsession. I was like 
Mark Twain with that old Atlantic Monthly classic: 

"The conductor, when he receives a fare, 
Will punch, in the presence of the passenjare, 
A blue trip slip for a six-cent fare, 
A pink trip slip for a five-cent fare," etc. 

Similarly, I couldn't shake off: 

"I am the very model of a modern Major-General." 



346 REMINISCENCES OF 

Last thing at night and first thing in the morning 
it would bob up, and instantly my memory would be 
automatically racing through it, lickety-split. I finally 
rescued myself from a sanitarium by recollecting that 
my "Pinafore" song began with 

"I am a monarch," etc. 

and when I saw the other one coming, I would start 
down the King's Pike at a 2.40 gait, and escape for a 
time. But whenever the opera was on, I had tantrums 
until I had landed safely at the end of that verbal 
steeplechase. 

When we produced the "Pirates" at the historic 
Booth's Theater, New York City, it was staged by 
James Ryley, the comedian, who was the first major- 
general who had ever sung the part. Ryley told me 
that after weeks and months he would still stick at 
that patter song, and on at least one occasion he found 
himself suddenly "dried up" in the very middle of it! 

Our personally conducted tours were generally 
east of the Mississippi and in the northern belt of 
States, but with an occasional invasion of far Western 
territory. 

"The Marriage of Figaro" occurred in Omaha — 
rather a forbidding place at that time (the early 80's) 
for so classic a ceremony. There were only two brick 
buildings in the town; and the sidewalks, when there 
were any, were of the rough plank species. 

These details may suffice to indicate the primitive 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 347 

character of Omaha borough thirty years ago. It has 
grown some since then; but, from first to last, its 
inhabitants have always been loyal constituents of 
the wandering stars from Boston. 

The first day we arrived in Omaha, it was bitter 
cold — the weather was, at least. Tom Karl and 
myself, not being in the cast and not called for rehearsal, 
went out for a walk down the main road, in a forlorn 
hope of shaking off the blues. No go! A combination 
of sandstorm and snow blizzard was blowing in our 
faces. After making headway for a block or two, we 
descried a funeral procession winding its way toward 
us, down the long hill ahead. 

"Tom," said I, "there comes probably the happiest 
person in this whole town." 

"If he only knew it," muttered the tenor, in gloomy 
assent, as we broke for shelter. 

The "Marriage of Figaro" duly came off, however, 
and that was as merry as the traditional wedding bells. 
It brought out, with the exception of Tom Karl and 
myself, the full strength and talent of our company — 
Stone, Ulmar, Phillips, Whitney, MacDonald, Morsell, 
Burton — a septette with which Mr. Mozart himself 
might have been pleased. 

But the performance was a bit shy in artificial 
comedy, however replete it may have been with the 
unintentional variety. The funniest thing to us was 
poor "Myron" (Whitney), in his first-night trepida- 
tion, shifting his guitar from one arm to the other, 



348 REMINISCENCES OF 

and thrumming (in dumb show) with right-hand and 
left-hand fingers alternately! Frothingham, too, was 
a farcical wonder in his attempt at a Spanish gardener, 
made up like an Irish grandee, and speaking a mongrel 
dialect that might have made a hit in vaudeville. 

However, Karl and myself, disguised as ticket 
buyers, organized ourselves into a claque out in front; 
and, in conjunction with Iron Hand, the Boy Usher, 
led some timely outbursts of applause that came in 
very handy. 

After Omaha, Denver and Colorado Springs marked 
the Western limit of our "Ideals" tour. They were 
also nearest the sky, and the rarefied atmosphere of 
those altitudes affected us audibly in long-meter 
notes, and visibly in an unsteady gait. At one matinee 
I was obliged to have an apology made for me, lest 
the friends in front should think I was in a state of 
hOw-came-You-so, instead of in the state of Colorado. 
But, generally, the higher the topographical elevation, 
the higher rose the estimation in which our company 
was popularly held; and we kept steadily adding to 
our list of friends. 

Denver was at that time the sphere of activity of 
one of the brightest individualities in wit, gentle irony 
and pure poetry that American soil has ever nourished. 
I allude to the late Eugene Field. 

My first sample of Field, who was then "scattered 
over" the various editorial, reportorial and other 
departments of the Denver Post was as a dramatic 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 349 

critic — not, in this instance, of my own efforts, but of 
those of an estimable gentleman who had unfortu- 
nately become stage-struck, and was mis-applying his 
abilities to Shakespeare. 'Gene Field's eloquent appre- 
ciation consisted of just two brief sentences, as follows : 

"Mr. played 'Hamlet' last night at the Taber 

Grand. He played it until twelve o'clock." 

Colorado Springs, then as now the resort of "lun- 
gers," or persons afflicted with pulmonary troubles, 
had a grim species of humor, all its own, which we 
rather admired as evidence of the courage which 
meets the ills of life smilingly, and blunts the sting of 
suffering with a joke. 

However they were the sort of people we were 
expected to make merry withal — and we did it. 

Audran's pretty operetta bearing the optimistic 
name "Mascot" was first heard, so far as the Ideals 
were concerned, in Boston. Its charm and good luck 
were spontaneous. "Dolly" Ulmar as Bettina and 
W. H. MacDonald as Pippo, gobble-gobbled their 
famous duet in a languishing-sweet way that was 
vastly catching to the Puritans. Lizzie Burton was 
also in evidence, and the two "comics," Frothingham 
and myself, had a royal time with Lorenzo and Rocco, 
a pair of worthies from whom all the comic-opera kings 
and hoodoos of the past quarter-century are descended. 

It was in this role of Lorenzo that I had one of those 
embarrassing little accidents from which a comedian 



350 REMINISCENCES OF 

is always expected to extricate himself with some 
brilliant flash of wit. In making a quick entrance, an 
important part of my costume caught on the scenery 

and was that is to say, they were torn from their 

moorings. They were in imminent peril of dropping 
off, and the audience were on! I made a quick, firm 
clutch with one hand, gesticulated with the other, and 
to Rocco's cue, "Your highness, I have an idea," 
answered, "Give it to the costumer!" Then I added: 

"Roccy, I have an idea also." 

"Put a couple of buttons on it!" replied Frothy. 

The audience roared, Bettina shook in a suppressed 
spasm of giggling, a stage hand fell off the paint- 
bridge — and the delicate crisis was past. 

Another night, when I was playing an Englishman, 
one of my side-whiskers became unglued, fell off, and 
hung down, dangling by a single hair. With one 
whisker off, the laugh would have been on me; but 
I quickly snatched off both, remarking, "Guess I'll 
have a clean shave." 

It was indeed a close shave, but the situation was 
saved. 

The now common stage trick of "mugging," or 
silent singing illuminated by facial contortions and 
voluble movements of the lips without a sound being 
articulated, undoubtedly had its origin in this same 
"Mascotte." I invented it myself. Prince Lorenzo's 
entrance song, "I feel uncomf ort-a-ble," being a favorite 
musical number, was always encored to excess. One 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 351 

night, after we had exhausted our verses and our 
breath without appeasing the audience, a thought hit 
me, and I turned to the boys and girls and chorus, 
saying, in a hoarse whisper: 

"Mug it!" 

By a common impulse we all marched gravely down 
to the footlights and mugged — giving a complete but 
noiseless pantomime rendition of the song, without 
words. The effect upon the audience was stunning, 
and thereafter we were never let off without a "mug." 

I neglected to copyright this device. In fact, there 
have been times and places where, in listening to 
alleged singing, I have felt an almost irresistible 
impulse to shout the command, "Mug it!" 

"The Musketeers," opera-ized from romantic old 
Dumas, gave Mr. MacDonald his best chance, both 
dramatically and vocally, and he got away with it in 
splendid style. "Dolly" Ulmar and Lizzie Burton 
were very much in it, too, in a conventional way, but 
Mrs. Knowles was even (Lady) Superior. Marie Stone 
was vivacious in action, and coloraturish in vocalism. 
The tenor, Morsell, was a dainty one; while "Abbe" 
Frothingham was delightfully unctuous and monk- 
tuous. I suppose I was ditto in this same part, which 
I assumed later, during the long lease of the "Mus- 
keteers" — but "odorous" comparisons are not here in 
order. 

Chicago bore up well under the Ideals' first per- 
formance of "Girofle-Girofla," in return for which 



352 REMINISCENCES OF 

patient endurance we also gave that great Lake 
Metropolis "Patience" ourselves, later. 

In "Girofle-Girofla," I utilized with much effect 
the wig idea which I had treasured up ever since my 
real-life observation of it twenty years before, whilst 
dry-goods-clerking in Hovey's store, in Boston — a 
billiard-ball head, plastered over sparsely with hair 
allowed to grow prodigiously long on one side, parted 
just over the ear, and carried over the top of the 
cranium to the other ear. 

Whether as an effect of this make-up, or of the 
piquant "naughty" flavor from the original French 
which still slightly tinged this piece, it went very well. 
Tom Karl's con amore wooing of the two Girofle- 
Giroflower twins, Mesdemoiselles Stone and Ulmar, 
also helped some. He made love so desperately that 
the sympathetic public would have it he was engaged 
to one of them — or both! 

And there were others who achieved their little 
triumphs on the side. I had the pleasure of conveying 
to Whitney one of the most original compliments he 
ever received. Whilst I was being shaved, the morning 
after the premiere, the colored tonsorial artist who 
wielded the razor paused to lean over and ask me: 

"Mistah Barnabee, whar d'ye pick up dat dar 
Whitney? My! but he sho' was great in dat Griffle- 
Groffle!" 

We gave a breakfast to Mr. Whitney at the Tremont 
House, in Chicago. This by no means frugal matutinal 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 353 

repast was a merited tribute to a grand artist and a 
right royal good fellow. It was epitomized in a punch- 
bowl of solid silver, inscribed 

in friendship's name 

Myron Whitney subsequently left us to join the 
American Opera Company, leaving behind him many 
regrets and a very large vacuum, which latter was ably 
filled, under the circumstances, by Mr. W. H. Clark. 

"Patience" was, from the beginning, one of our 
banner successes. I took the greatest delight in elabo- 
rating my character of Bunthorne, and bringing out 
the fine points with which it bristles. 

"Fra Diavolo," another dear old opera which our 
vocal and eccentric talents did much to popularize, 
ends the list presented by the Boston Ideals, under 
this company name, during the six years of Miss 
Ober's regime. 

Our managerial mascot, the pioneer lady impresario, 
after having won the respect and admiration of her 
associates, glory for her organization, and material 
rewards for its members as well as for herself, wearied 
of the carking cares of the "show" business, and dis- 
posed of her interest, principal, and good-will in the 
enterprise to a mere man. 

THE BOSTON IDEALS 

"Of all companies now before the public, the Boston 
Ideals is most distinctly popular by reason, not only of its 
very high vocal merit, but of the feeling of almost personal 



354 REMINISCENCES OF 

acquaintance and good fellowship in which its individual 
members are held by their audiences." — Washington, D. C. 

"Mr. H. C. Barnabee is the soul and life of the company." 
— Cleveland Critic. 

"There is a void in any opera the Ideals present without 
Barnabee's participation." — Utica, N. Y. 

"The Ideals without Henry Clay Barnabee would be like 
Hamlet without the hero." — Detroit, Mich. 

"The whole company is by far the best for light opera 
that was ever formed." — Washington, D. C. 

"The superiority of the Boston Ideals, as they are famil- 
iarly called, is as decisive as the towering of Teneriffe over 
the level expanse of the sea which encompasses it." — Chi- 
cago, III. 

"Their hold on the public increases with the years, until 
the public has come to regard them as indispensable, and 
their appearance is the signal for a rush." — Omaha, Neb. 

"It is certainly beyond a question that no such organiza- 
tion of refined and cultivated ladies and gentlemen ever 
traveled through the country before in a professional way." 
—Buffalo, N. Y. 



Chapter XXXI 



FOND RECOLLECTIONS 

EUGENE FIELD. — EMORY STORRS. — MARK TWAIN. — A 
SILVER WEDDING ON WHEELS. 

"If 7 had my way, every city in the world should build a temple of music, 
a cathedral, so to speak, wherein nothing but the most beautiful masterpieces 
should be heard." — M. Ysaye. 

I CANNOT mention Chicago without referring again 
to Eugene Field, whose acquaintance I made first 
in Denver. 

'Gene's headquarters in Chicago was at the News 
office. He made things hum there and elsewhere about 
town, in the later eighties and early nineties. The 
copious "notices" with which he favored his innumer- 
able friends in the dramatic profession were as fanciful 
as they were kind. They may have been heavily charged 
with fiction, but they contained no venom at all. 

This is getting ahead of the chronology of my 
narrative, but I must recall right here the trick 'Gene 
Field played on me when I struck Chicago with the 
Bostonians, after having made myself solid there in 
my visit with the Ideals, some years previously. 

He published an alleged interview in his "Sharps 
and Flats" column, making me explain to the public 
that I was not the original Henry Clay Barnabee, but 

355 



856 REMINISCENCES OF 

his promising son, who had lately stepped into the 
old man's shoes. 

"His imitations of his famous father were marvelous 
in their fidelity," 'Gene wrote of me; "and the critic 
of the Barnstable Palladium, who had heard the elder 
Barnabee in religious concerts forty years ago, heralded 
the younger Barnabee as 'the dawn of a glorious lyric 

epoch' 'When father got back home at the end 

of last season,' says the junior H. C. Barnabee, 'he 
sent for me, and said, "Hank," says he, "I've 'bout 
made up my mind to let you take my place in our 
op'ry company. You ain't wuth a durn for any other 
business, and I guess you wuz cut out for a actor." 
'MacDonald took me aside and said that if I went 
with the op'ry I mustn't let on to anybody but what 
I was the old man. "What for?" says I. "Because," 
says he, "it might hurt our business if folks got onto 
it that the old man Barnabee had retired. The public 
is a curious critter; it insists on having its own way. 
Now, you and I know that I'm a heap funnier than 
old man Barnabee ever dared be; but, sakes alive! 
you couldn't make the public believe it." 

"In answer to our inquiries," Field's article con- 
tinues, "Mr. Barnabee said that his father was living 
in retirement in Boston, devoting considerable time 
to the preparation of his 'Personal Reminiscences of a 
Centenarian,' to which Dr. Oliver Holmes will con- 
tribute a prefatory essay on 'The Early Comic 
Movement in New England.' 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 357 

"The evening of the old gentleman's long, active, 
and useful life is fittingly beautiful in its quiet and 
repose; and the retired veteran finds peculiar satis- 
faction in the assurance that to his place in the sphere 
of lyric art his best-beloved son has succeeded without 
dispute or question." 

In 1891 when Mr. Field was the guest of Mr. Will J. 
Davis at Willowdale Farm, Crown Point, Indiana, he 
wrote among other things to me the following letter : 

Dear Mr. Barnabee: It will please you, I am sure, to hear 
of the improved condition of your justly famed contralto, 
Mrs. Jessie Bartlett Davis, who came to this sanitarium 
several weeks ago in search of repose and health. The lady 
has picked up a good deal since her arrival, and unless the 
village hay scales deceive us, she will be able to perform 
two roles at one and the same time for you next season. 
We are having her surveyed for a number of new costumes. 
On the whole, the outlook is most auspicious, and we shall 
expect you to testify, in your capacity of manager of the 
Bostonians, to the efficacy of these springs, their horses, 
dogs, poets and other livestock, in all cases and phases of 
physical prostration to contraltos. We shall send you pres- 
ently a portrait of Mrs. Davis in groups. I beg you to convey 
to your estimable father the expression of my most distin- 
guished consideration, and to believe me ever, dear sir, 
your admirer, friend and well wisher, 

Eugene Field. 

It sounds just like poor 'Gene! 

Another Chicagoan I can't forget was Emory Storrs. 
He was a brilliant wit and a telling public speaker. 
He had two fads, one, the collection of the rarest book 



358 REMINISCENCES OF 

bindings, and the other a passion for neckties, and his 
rooms at the Leland Hotel, where I always met him, 
contained a library of the choicest volumes, in one 
section, and in the other the plethoric beginnings of 
a gents' furnishing store. On one day when I called, 
I noticed on a table a portrait of a lady, and as she was 
quite handsome, I ventured to inquire who she was. 
"That lady, Mr. Barnabee, is one of your strongest 
admirers," said Mr. Storrs. "It is Mrs. Storrs, she is 
a fine woman and she has only one out." 

"Pray what can that be?" said I. 

"Well, Mr. Barnabee, it is utterly impossible for 
her to give the answer to a conundrum correctly." 

For lack of the proper comment to make, I said, 
"Well, that is funny." 

"For instance," said he, "I came home from the 
court room the other day with this which I thought 
clever — 'Why is the Constitution of the United States 
like a cat?' and the answer is 'One has pauses between 
its clauses and the other has clawses between its pawses.' 

"Well, my wife thought it was great, and said 'Emory, 
we are to have company tonight, and when you are 
talking with the men, I will give that to the ladies.' 

" 'Oh, ladies,' she said, T have got the funniest 
conundrum! I nearly laughed myself into fits today, 
and I know you will !' Of course they all cried out for 
it, and then my wife gave it, and added: 'There's no 
use for any of you trying to guess its answer, you could 
not.' 




Edwin W. Hoff in "The 

Ogallalas" 
\v. E. Philp in "The Sere- 
nade" 
Tom Karl as Ralph Rack- 
straw in "Pinafore" 



M. \v. Whitney as Captain 
Corcoran in "Pinafore" 

Edwin W. Hoff in the 

"Musketeers" 

Arthur B. Hitchcock as the 
Boatswain in "■Pinafore" 



Peter Lang, i he original 
Guy of Gisborne, "Robin 

Hood" 
W. H. MacDonald, the 
original Little John. "Robin 

Hood" 
George B. Frothingham as 
Dick Deadeye, "Pinafore" 




Bamabee as Bunthorne iD 

"Patience" 
Bamabee as the Sergeant in 

"Rob Roy" 

Bamabee and Mareia Van 

Dresser in "Vice-Roy" 



Bamabee as Vice-Roy in 

"Vice-Roy" 
Bamabee as Vice-Roy in 

disguise 

Bamabee in the last act of 

"The Serenade" 



Bamabee as the Vice-Roy in 

"Vice-Roy" 
Bamabee as the Sheriff of 

Nottingham 

Bamabee in the second act 

of "The Serenade" 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 359 

"And what do you suppose she gave as its answer? 
Well, choking with laughter, she said — 'One has 
pauses between its clauses and the other has, oh, dear ! 
I shall burst, I know I shall, the other has, has, has — 
the other has kittens!' " 

I remember Mark Twain very well, and as the fol- 
lowing has never been published to my knowledge and 
is too good to be lost, I venture to relate it here. 

I had met Mr. Clemens at Redpath's lecture bureau, 
and as I was very much delighted with his bounteous 
humor, I was very desirous to hear him talk. One 
night he was to lecture in the Boston Music Hall on 
"Cannibalism." Unfortunately, I was engaged as a 
"filler in" at an entertainment in a neighboring hall, 
but I was determined to get a look at and even a 
detached hearing of the great humorist. Accordingly 
I arranged to have one of my offerings come in the first 
part of our concert and the other in the last half, and 
while the audience was patiently chafing at the delay 
in my appearance, I grabbed my coat and hat and 
made for the Music Hall. The place was packed, but 
I managed to squeeze in at the far end of the audi- 
torium and get within long distance hearing and seeing 
of the lecturer. 

Just as I emerged from under the balcony, the 
banner jokist in his most peculiar utterance said — 
(mind you, the subject was "Cannibalism") "Ladies 
and gentlemen! at this point in my lecture, I usually 
illustrate my subject, but as I understand babies are 



360 REMINISCENCES OF 

scarce and high in this neighborhood, on this occasion 
it will be omitted." And do you know, that so far as 
I could see or hear, not a smile or snicker escaped into 
the waverlets of air, in that vast expanse. As for me, 
I retired to the corridor in a perfect collapse of irre- 
pressible laughter. It seems incredible, but really it 
was just so, and it all took place in the city of 
inspiration, intelligence and intellectuality. 

But sometimes the joke is on the joker. The manager 
of the lecture course, just before the talk began, said 
to Twain, "My brother, who is a great admirer of you 
and your works, is coming here tonight and will sit 
in the front seat. I will point him out to you. If not 
too much trouble to you I wish you would address 
him pointedly and especially with humor." Twain 
assented, and for an hour he plied him in every way 
without effect. He fired off a rapid musketry of jokes 
and finally turned on a gatling gun of laugh provokers, 
but all to no avail. The man sat there silent, im- 
movable, with stolid face and manner. Twain finished 
his oration. At the close the manager, after paying 
the fee, and carefully providing for himself the means 
of rapid transit, said to the bewildered lecturer, "Mr. 
Clemens, I entirely forgot to tell you that he is stone 
deaf." 

Now wasn't that cruel? 

Three notable events, to me, of this sextet of years 
that we were "the Ideals" were: my silver wedding, 
or twenty -fifth anniversary of my marriage; the 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 361 

Whitney breakfast, aforementioned; and our Christ- 
mas celebration of 1884. The first and third of these 
were celebrated en route, at forty-odd miles an hour, 
as befitted a company of strollers. 

The silver wedding breakfast was spread in a special 
car on the train from Cleveland to Toledo; and before 
it was over I had been duly and eloquently presented 
with a loving cup, "From the Company of We, Us & 
Co." It was a beautiful occasion — of the kind to be 
very tenderly remembered ever afterward. 

The Christmas high jinks was all the way from St. 
Louis to Cincinnati, and took in every man, woman, 
child, official and employee on the train. I made up 
as Santa Claus, with headquarters in my stateroom, 
and our company's special car was a forest of Christmas 
trees. We sang, recited seasonable and topical verses, 
and old Santa handed out, by actual count, just 787 
gifts to delighted recipients from all points of the 
compass. 

In the great Northwest we planted our flag in 
Minneapolis and St. Paul, and it waved there in tri- 
umph for many years. The warmth of our reception 
always offset the frigidity of the climate. 

The real estate boom struck that section about the 
same time we did, and I was induced to plant some of 
my surplus and other cash in the ground. It proved 
a permanent investment. The plant is still there, and 
has developed into a fine burial-place for taxes. 



Chapter XXXII 



THE ORIGINAL AND ONLY BOSTONIANS 

A CHANGE OE POLICY. FROM WHENCE THE NAME. 

MARCUS A. HANNA, A LOYAL FRIEND. "MIGNON," A 

WINNER. NEW FACES. "PYGMALION AND GALATEA." 

"God speed the Bostonians! That my affections for those with whom I 
spent so many pleasant years has never lapsed, you who were with me and 
shared my successes are fully aware. My best wishes go out toward you, and 
with the knowledge I have of your plans and purposes, I am confident you will 
succeed. I know you will never lose sight of the fact that without actual merit 
you cannot maintain the reputation you have always enjoyed." — Extract from 
Miss Ober's letter to Messrs. Karl, MacDonald and Barnabee, September 
15, 1887. 

MISS OBER was succeeded in the management 
of our flourishing comic-opera organization by 
Mr. W. H. Foster, who erstwhile had been 
"out ahead" of us as advance agent, and who now, by 
some unexplained complimentary promotion, became 
"Colonel" Foster. 

The Colonel re-enlisted most of us old campaigners, 
and drummed up some promising new recruits. Among 
these latter were Miss Agnes Huntington, and Miss 
Zelie de Lussan. Then, in a fine frenzy of impresario- 
ship, our new commander reached out for European 
stars, and engaged Mme. Lablache (daughter of the 
celebrated original of that name) by cable. Trans- 
atlantic messages came high in those days, so the 

362 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 363 

Colonel was brief, even to vagueness. In accepting 
the engagement, Mme. Lablache cabled: 

"How shall I get to America? Collect." 

"Swim. Collect," was the impresario's reply. 

She finally came by the ordinary but comfortable 
steamship conveyance, and made good as a capable 
contralto and conscientious artiste. Miss Huntington 
soon became, deservedly, a favorite with the public; 
while Miss de Lussan, with more practical though 
otherwise questionable thrift, industriously cultivated 
the favor of the management. 

A gradual change of policy soon made itself apparent 
by which the old repertoire suffered a sea-change 
and gradually came to be "cabined, cribbed, confined" 
by the well-defined limitations of one sprightly but 
scheming prima donna. 

No sudden disaster assailed us; but after a second 
so-so season several of the principals concluded that 
their interests and those of the commanding officer 
lay in different directions, and so they withdrew in 
good order. 

A little while longer the Ideals contended with the 
Real ; but the treasury vault echoed forth a distressingly 
hollow sound. We then rested. It was time for a new 
deal. 

Messrs. Karl, MacDonald and myself held a meeting, 
took account of stock, and found there were no assets 
but a name. Three of a kind, however, seemed a fair 
hand to draw to. So we put up and formed another 



364 REMINISCENCES OF 

company. We couldn't very well call it by the old 
established name, and yet we naturally desired to 
keep up our connection with the glorious past. 

Who would give us a name? 

The friend who came to our rescue in this dilemma 
was none other than Kentucky's knightly son, Colonel 
Henry Watterson. 

Publicist and poet, statesman and musician, hard- 
working journalist and princely patron of Bohemia, 
"Marse Henry" is the friend of artists universally. 
It would be difficult to name another prominent man 
of his time, not directly associated with the stage, so 
generally held in personal affection and esteem as is 
Colonel Watterson. 

"What is the matter with calling yourselves the 
Bostonians?" he suggested. 

We hailed it as an inspiration, and him as our 
deliverer and prophet. 

The papers were drawn up and signed in Cleveland, 
Ohio; and there, in the Buckeye State — which, if 
she cannot claim to be the first Mother of Presidents, 
is at least their mother-in-law — sprang into being an 
organization destined to hold on high the standard 
of light opera, and to win for its members fame, fortune 
and many more friends. 

There was special fitness in the company's dating its 
beginning from Cleveland. That fair lakeside city 
had long been one of our most delectable stopping- 
places. Its hospitality drew us from afar. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 365 

And Cleveland was the home of Marcus A. Hanna, 
of beloved memory, and from first to last our generous, 
staunch, and loyal friend. Under his hospitable roof, 
and in the bosom of his family, we had been cordially 
welcomed and royally entertained during many a 
happy hour. 

In the theater which Mark Hanna built, he partici- 
pated, so to speak, in our successes. When our time 
of need came, it was his generosity that sent us on our 
way rejoicing. No language of mine can express my 
regard for the dead statesman and his memory. The 
last time I met him, not long before his untimely 
passing, was in the corridor of the Chicago Audi- 
torium. Grasping his outstretched hand, I assured him 
of my enduring affection. 

"Well, Barney," said he, "keep on loving me." 

I did, and I will. 

There is a story about a teacher of logic telling his 
class that if any part of an object should be lost and 
then replaced, the identity of the object remained 
unchanged, and it was ever the same article. A boy 
spoke up and asked: 

"If I have a knife with one blade, and I lose the 
blade and get a new one, is it the same knife?" 

"Yes," the teacher replied. 

"And then if I lose the handle and get another one, 
is that the same knife?" 

"Certainly." 

"Well, then, supposing some other boy finds the old 



366 REMINISCENCES OF 

handle and the old blade, and puts them together 
again — what knife is that?" 

The class was dismissed, on the same principle that 
actuated a militia officer who, finding himself with his 
company on the march suddenly confronted by a 
stone wall, and not knowing any tactical order for 
surmounting the obstacle, gave the order: 

"Company dismissed. When you form, form on 
t'other side of the fence!" 

The logic of events never brought us to that stone 
wall, because we always kept enough of the old com- 
pany to avoid the semblance of disintegration. Other- 
wise, if the portions that slipped away from time to 
time during the remainder of our itinerary had been 
gathered together, we might have encountered some 
strong rivalry, and had occasion to echo the observa- 
tion of the Duke of Gloucester in the tragedy of 
Richard III: 

"I think there be six Richmonds in the field." 

This all is applicable to the formation of the Bos- 
tonians. Change and rotation were inevitable. Juli- 
ette Cordon, Ricardo Ricci, and two young tenors to 
alternate with Mr. Karl, filled immediate voids; and, 
with a "scrumptious" revival of "Fatinitza," under 
the talented direction of Oscar Weil, and a good-as- 
new opera of Offenbach's entitled "The Poachers," 
we ventured forth upon our new career, and had the 
satisfaction of being everywhere hailed as the real 
survivors and heirs of the late lamented Ideals. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 367 

In their first season's race, the Bostonians, besides 
giving some of their old successes a chance, played 
"Mignon" and "Fanchonette" for favorites, and 
landed "Mignon" a winner. "Fanchonette" also ran, 
but the pace was too rapid, and she was distanced in 
the home stretch. It was in this last named piece 
that I did my "justly celebrated butterfly act," cos- 
tumed as a yellow-jacket, with black stripes, and a 
pair of spangled wings. 

"Mignon" was a beautiful interpretation, showing 
the Bostonians at their very best. I know this, be- 
cause I was not in the cast, and I always took my 
night off to see Ambroise Thomas' romantic opera in 
preference to any other show which might be coincident 
in town. 

The next two seasons brought about the subtraction 
of Agnes Huntington and Mr. Ricci from our ranks; 
the addition of Jessie Bartlett Davis, Carlotta Maconda, 
Eugene Cowles, Edwin W. Hoff, and Josephine Bart- 
lett; the multiplication of honors and lucrative en- 
gagements; and the division of large and increasing 
emoluments. 

"Dorothy" was another piece added to the Bos- 
tonian repertoire about this time, which distributed a 
fine lot of opportunities among the various principals, 
with the exception of Maconda, whose brilliant colora- 
tura soprano was reserved for the regular "feature" 
programmes. 

This was the operatic debut of Eugene Cowles, whom 



368 REMINISCENCES OF 

we rescued from a bank (the Second National, of 
Chicago). He acquitted himself with integrity as 
Squire Bantam, and was not found short in the 
accounts of his musical notes. 

"Pygmalion and Galatea" was a deft mosaic of 
home manufacture, being the classical poetic comedy 
of W. S. Gilbert wedded to music, some of which was 
original with Oscar Weil, but the greater part of 
which had not been original since Suppe and other 
European masters had composed it for operas of their 
own. Yet "P. and G." had many qualities of popular 
appeal. With Tom Karl and Marie Stone as the 
sculptor and the sculpture, Jessie Bartlett Davis as 
Cynisca, Maconda and Cowles happily cast, and I 
myself fitted as with a glove the fat part of Chrysos. 

I never could fathom the failure of this piece to 
"hold them." It certainly started with a boom at 
Buffalo; yet on the "repeat" there the feeble response 
at the box-office was depressing. 

It was one of those baffling divergences of mind 
between managers and artists on the one hand, and 
the paying — or staying away — public on the other. 
As the metaphysician inquires: 

"What is mind?" 

"No matter." 

"And what is matter?" 

"Never mind!" 

You never can tell, until the die is cast, whether a 
given musical score is going to tickle the public's ear, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 369 

or offend it. There is no more data to rely on here 
than there is for answering the conundrum, "What 
kind of noise does an oyster shrink from most?" the 
answer being, "A noisy noise annoys an oyster most." 

THE BOSTONIANS 

"And how can you forget the Bostonians — dear old Barna- 
bee and our own Jessie Bartlett Davis?" — The late Richard 
Mansfield in Chicago Herald, Nov. 19, 1893. 

"The company is too well known to need a recapitulation 
of its merits. Good looks, good voices, good action and good 
management make its work remarkably satisfactory." — 
San Francisco Examiner, March 25, 1891. 

"As a smooth, evenly balanced and thoroughly excellent 
opera company, the Bostonians are superior to any organ- 
ization in this country." — Omaha Republican, Dec. 22, 1887. 

"The Bostonians have succeeded because the music- 
loving public believed in its founders, recognized its good 
intentions and found by experience the worth of its prod- 
ucts. — Boston Times, May 27, 1888. 

"Out of the thousand and one companies, dramatic and 
operatic, that come among us there is perhaps no other the 
members of which are regarded in any such spirit of personal 
esteem and good will among the people of this city as are 
the members of the Bostonians." — St. Paul Dispatch, Dec. 
24, 1888. 

"If it were in the nature of things for an operatic comedian 
to be a star, then assuredly Mr. Barnabee ought to be the 
star of the Bostonians. There can be no doubt that he is 
the most finished comic opera comedian on the stage. Others 
may have gained more popular successes, but Barnabee 
has yet got to touch anything which he does not^adorn. 



370 REMINISCENCES OF 

His movements are grace itself, while his fun is as natural 
as water flowing from a spring." — San Francisco Post, 
March 24, 1891. 

"The clean-cut quality of their work, the artistic spirit 
that pervades it and the grateful absence of struggle for 
individual pre-eminence at the expense of the integrity of 
their performances are among the things that peculiarly 
commend the Bostonians to music lovers." — Detroit Free 
Press. 

"The Bostonians was a company founded in good faith, 
intent upon producing good, standard operas, in a practical, 
thoroughly good manner, by capable artists. It was a com- 
pany of musicians, and not a highly paid manager with a 
company attachment, or a twinkling star with a managerial 
satellite.— Boston Times, May 27, 1888. 

"Having always had the stamp of respectability, without 
the blot of pretentiousness, one is readily willing to accept 
the Bostonians, socially as well as professionally, and that 
is a distinction to which comparatively few stage people 
are entitled, or rather entitle themselves. — Buffalo Courier, 
May 13, 1888. 

"There is not a singer among them who could not be 
duplicated, and without much searching, but somehow the 
Bostonians have discovered a secret — a secret that teaches 
them just how to give a performance different to all others — 
a performance so perfect that nothing can be suggested. — 
Montreal Herald, Jan. 30, 1897. 

"Vocally the Bostonians have long been superior to con- 
temporary light opera organizations — indeed, it is princi- 
pally on this vocal superiority that their fame has been so 
well established. 

"This is not remarkable when it is known that, while 
other managers have considered beauty of form and feature 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 371 

the essential qualifications, Messrs. Barnabee and Mac- 
Donald have consistently maintained singing talent to be 
of primary importance." — Manitoba Free Press, Jan. 21, 
1903. 

"Singers, like the seasons, come and go, but each year 
finds the Bostonians reinvigorated and strength renewed." 
—Rockford, 1903. 

"The Bostonians have been together since the beginning 
of American lyric opera. It is not strange that they should 
be its best interpreters." — The Herald, Montreal, Canada, 
Jan. 26, 1897. 

"Bostonians: Concerning these singers dispassionate 
criticism is an impossibility. Years ago they broke a passage 
into the people's hearts and from that place they have never 
been dislodged." — Courier-Journal, Louisville, Ky., Nov. 
17, 1896. 

"The Bostonians seem better than ever. Is it because 
we have been so surfeited with cheap, provincial perform- 
ances of lyric and comic opera, been so bored by wretched 
countrified opera and unmusical outfits in musical produc- 
tions, that these ancient and honorable relics of another, 
a better and truer time of sweet song and clean merriment 
should so charm a huge, enthusiastic throng of well-informed 
people?"— Chicago News, Feb. 9, 1903. 

"They are engaged in the noble work of elevating the 
stage, not by setting themselves up as reformers and preach- 
ing against this thing and that, but by example, glorious 
example, and does not that always speak louder than words? 
They are furnishing entertainment of the highest order, 
take it from any point of view that you will. They are all 
they profess to be; they are more. They are excellent in 
every respect." — The Daily Item, New Orleans, Dec. 8, 
1896. 



Chapter XXXIII 



TO THE GOLDEN GATE 

KNOCKING AT THE GATE. — GATES AJAR. "fATINITZA" 

IN A MORMON TOWN. — JOKE ON JESSIE BARTLETT 
DAVIS. — JOKES ON OTHER MEMBERS OF THE COMPANY. 

"If a rose may change its name and open its petals to the dew on the following 
morning without the slightest change in its native color or sweet perfume, why 
should not that favorite bouquet of melody, known so long as the Boston Ideals, 
be transformed into the Bostonians without losing any of the elements that 
accounted for their old-time popularity?" — Critic. 

OUR first trip to California was memorable in 
every way — a personally conducted tour in a 
special train, over prairies, deserts, and snow- 
capped mountains — one continuous picnic of six days' 
duration, in which real redskins joined with the Indians 
of our troop in whooping things up. 

No! We were not the first New Englanders who 
had invaded the land of fairies, fruits and flowers. 
A great many Easterners went out there when the 
real estate boom was on, invested their money on the 
country roads where flagged sidewalks were being 
laid in anticipation of the rush for lots. The rush 
did not materialize, however. Lots of money dis- 
appeared and the stranded victims rushed to our 
performances, glad enough to see somebody from 
home. 

372 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 373 

After a week of success and absorption of the glorious 
climate, we journeyed northward to the Golden Gate. 
Speaking of climate, reminds me to say that climate 
is California's long suit, and it is played at every 
stage of the game. No wonder it is a winner. A new- 
comer was once dining with a family who lived on 
the bayside of San Francisco, and was plying the host 
with questions as to the reasons for this and that. 

"What is the cause of the profusion of flowers?" 

"Climate!" 

"What makes the grass grow the year round?" 

"Climate!" 

"Why does the fruit grow so large?" 

"Climate!" 

"What makes garden produce so cheap?" 

"Climate!" 

Finally, looking across the bay and noticing the 
mountain in the distance, he asked — 

"Is there any way to ascend that elevation?" — and 
the answer was ever the same — 

"Oh, yes! Climb-it." 

The San Franciscans received us with open arms 
and enthusiastic shake, not only of the hand, but just 
to enforce the welcome and make us feel at home gave 
us a sample of real hospitality. We had heard that 
the city was always wide open, and I assure you we 
found it so. 

Coming home from the club the first night, we en- 
tered a billiard saloon at 3.30 a. m. The tables were 



374 REMINISCENCES OF 

nearly all occupied while we were waiting for our 
"cues." I stepped up to an attendant and said, "You 
keep it up here a little late, don't you?" 

"Oh, well! " said he, "it may be a little late for 
night before last, but for last night it is just in the 
shank of the evening." 

He had scarcely uttered the words, when looking up 
with blanched face, he yelled out, "Boys, it's an 
earthquake!" Billiard markers began swinging, doors 
slamming, windows rattling, and our knees knocking 
together. 

We all rushed for the street only to find the sidewalk 
just where we left it. In about a moment a couple of 
our boys came along and reported that the walls of 
their room at the Baldwin Hotel see-sawed like the 
sides of a cigar-box. Citizens said that the shock was 
the heaviest since 1868. The fearsome memory of it 
lasted me until 1906, when the news of the great 
disaster grieved me more than it surprised. 

Our stay in the city was one round of success and 
joy. We learned subsequently that the people were 
very conservative in their judgment; but when once 
they approved, like the English people, they never 
faltered in their loyalty. That being the case we had 
every reason to rejoice, for we were afterwards made 
to believe that we were prime favorites, and our 
goings and comings of joy and regret were accentuated 
by the singing of Auld Lang Syne by audience and 
company. 




'Moving Pictures" of Barnabee expression that run the gamut of human moods from gad 
to say. impersonating individual characters 




BARNABEE AS SIR ADMIRAL PORTER IN "PIXAFORE" 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 375 

Salt Lake City, Denver, Omaha and Sioux City 
were stopping places on our way back home. We were 
a little doubtful of the reception of the four wives in 
the harem scene of "Fatinitza" in the city of salt which 
had not lost its savor of wifely multiplicity, notwith- 
standing Brigham Young's nineteen spouses, and the 
ruthless assaults of Ann Eliza, analyzer of the faith. 
Anyway, the Salt Lakers sent us away with a figurative 
back-patting, and though we returned many times we 
were always as welcome "as the flowers that bloom in 
the spring." 

We closed that season 'way in the torrid month of 
July, winding up with what remains in the annals of 
the Bostonians as one of our historical broad-gauge 
gags. 

In a moment of persiflage, Jessie Bartlett Davis 
had declared with emphasis that the comedian did 
not exist who could make her laugh, outside the 
regular business of her part. I determined to put her 
to the test. 

In the first act of "Fatinitza" there is a masquerade 
scene where the cadets, headed by Vladimir in the 
skirts of the heroine, march on, disguised in all sorts 
of fantastic garb. The general sternly calls them to 
order, whereupon Fatinitza intercedes for them in 
soothing song. 

Here was my chance. I arranged with the orchestra 
leader to strike up a march on the wind instruments, 
just as Jessie was about to begin her number, and in 



376 REMINISCENCES OF 

filed a brigade of the Salvation Army. Our baggage- 
master led off with the blood-red flag; various unem- 
ployed members of the company, with the women 
folks in shawls and poke bonnets, followed, playing 
tambourines; then came MacDonald as a converted 
bum, and myself in a short-waisted coat and ridiculous 
"soger cap," beating the big bass drum; while a 
diminutive libretto boy brought up the rear, waving 
another flag. 

For a moment, both the audience and the players 
on the stage were dumbfounded, thinking us a detach- 
ment of the real Salvationists come to snatch the 
Bostonians as a brand from the burning. Then sud- 
denly Miss Davis caught sight of my face, and, ob- 
livious of everything and everybody, gave a wild 
scream of laughter, and cried out: 

"Great Scott, it's Barney!" 

Then an uproarious wave swept the house, fairly 
carrying the players off their feet, excepting the bur- 
lesque army, which maintained a superhuman im- 
perturbability of countenance. Fatinitza tried to sing 
her song, but couldn't; until, finally, we marched off 
as we had entered, without cracking a smile. Then 
the snowstorm began, the sleigh-bells tinkled, and 
they managed somehow to finish the act. 

But, despite the wintry accompaniments, that was 
a red-hot July night! 

Dear Jessie Bartlett Davis, that exclamation, 
"Great Scott, it's Barney," was so outspoken and 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 377 

characteristic, and so funny. Of quite as much force, 
and more pronounced, was her unpremeditated an- 
nouncement in the theater at Washington, D. C. We 
were playing the "Maid of Plymouth." Jessie in 
Indian character and dress was in stage conversation 
with an effeminate English lord, personated by Miss 
Mena Cleary. 

It was time for Miss Waltzinger's appearance, and 
just as she came into the wings, what should she 
behold but an enormous rodent, sitting up and facing 
her. A wild shriek, and the two started in opposite 
directions, Miss Waltzinger for her dressing room, and 
Mr. Rodent for his first appearance on any stage. 
He made a quick entrance and rapid transit across the 
boards. 

The audience was in an uproar of laughter and 
applause. The stage performers were struck with 
fright. Just as the "debutante" was disappearing, 
Jessie turned and saw him! Instantly forgetting the 
audience that was waiting, she grabbed the trembling 
lord by the shoulders, and with her expressive face, 
accentuated by a voice that could be heard out on the 
sidewalk, shouted, "My Gord! Mena! 'twas a Rat!" 

The audience simply howled, but simmered down 
as soon as possible (though they did not entirely 
recover) and allowed the American and English repre- 
sentatives to fraternize in trembling accents, in terror 
of a second appearance of the "new beginner." 

Now that I have strayed, as it were, into the anec- 



378 REMINISCENCES OF 

dotal field, I might just as well pen a few more real 
stage happenings, to close the chapter. 

I do love a good joke on myself, and that is a fact. 
How else could I have told of the countryman, seeing 
Robin Hood, who asked his friend if he supposed that 
"durned old son of a gun," meaning me, "was goin' 
to git the little gal arter all." One night, when I had 
a lavishly dressed character to perform, I was a little 
late at my dressing-room, with no one to assist me 
in my necessary adornment. I hurried on my sym- 
metricals (the foundation for shapely limbs) pushed 
my feet into my shoes, hurriedly made up my face, 
and, without stopping, in my haste, to think, put on 
my embroidered white vest, my velvet coat, and walked 
onto the stage where the company was assembled, 
ready to begin. 

I was immediately aware, by the fingers pointing at 
my underpinnings, and the suppressed mirth, that 
something was wrong, and looking down in the direc- 
tion of guide-board fingers, perceived in a flash that 
I had neglected to put on my lace collar, my silk stock- 
ings and my trousers. Goodness ! did I make a quick 
change? Indeed I did, just in time for me to walk 
nonchalantly on and finish the long act. 

There was a shout of laughter from the corps mu- 
sique as the curtain fell, which I quelled, "acknowl- 
edged the corn," and promised to pay at the close of 
the entertainment, at a nearby cafe. I do not remem- 
ber what my lapse of memory cost me, but as the fun 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 379 

and excitement had an exhilarating effect on the 
appetites of the free lunchers, I am sure my salary, 
on the next Saturday, was really a weakly stipend. 

We had a young chap in our company whose 
brother had invested a large sum of money in his 
European musical education. He had a fine voice 
and sang well, but had not received any education in 
the grace of acting, and was rather angular and ama- 
teurish in his stage movements. 

One night his brother came to witness his perform- 
ance, in a small part, and at the close came to his 
dressing-room. The singer, with a confident air, 
accosted his brother with the words, "Well, Jim, 
how do you think I got on?" 

"Oh," said the investor, "you did very well, but I 
think you would have done better on castors." That 
was a chilly reply, but it was just what he k-needed. 
After that he limbered up. 

A funny thing happened in Baltimore. Marie 
Stone, our gilt-edged prima donna, owned a small 
black and tan dog, which she took to the theater in 
a basket every night when she was in the cast, and, 
besides keeping tabs on the cues and the opera, that 
dog knew, to a second, when it was time to go home, 
and always recovered from his nap in season to join 
her. 

The dog was a great pet in the company, but would 
not play, unless the playee would first assume a 
recumbent position, and then he was it for a frolic. One 



380 REMINISCENCES OF 

night, the opera was "Patience," with Marie in the 
title role. The dog, taking advantage of an opportunity, 
jumped out of his basket and ran down to the first 
entrance; seeing the girls all in aesthetic and reclining 
attitudes, for the purposes of the scene, his canine 
instinct told him they were there for his pleasure. He 
skipped on, and began dancing up and down in front 
of them. . The audience applauded vociferously. The 
eight or ten inches of canine black and tan, resenting 
the intrusion, deliberately walked down to the foot- 
lights and delivered himself of several snappy barks. 
The more the audience applauded the more he tore 
off the bark, till "Patience," who had missed the con- 
tents of the basket, forgot her patience, and in a frenzy 
of chagrin, rushed in and seizing the miniature barking 
apparatus by the neck, rescued him from the unequal 
contest. That was his farewell to the stage. 

A Hebrew by the name of Joe (of course his name 
had a conclusion, but it has escaped my memory) 
was a favorite of our company, on account of his ready 
wit, particularly in repartee. No one could ever get 
away with him. One day we had a long and tiresome 
rehearsal, everybody was sleepy. I was sitting in a 
chair, when Joe came stealing up to me, and said, in 
a low tone, "Mister Barnabee, do you think you will 
have any one night stands next season?" "Well, I 
suppose so, Joe, why do you ask?" "Well, I think, 
Mister Barnabee, you might put one in Jerusalem, it 
is my happy home." I stopped the rehearsal long 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 381 

enough to wake them up by telling them of their 
prospects for another season, in a favor to "Joe." 

The next one is a dandy on George Frothingham, a 
gentleman well-known in operatic circles. A society 
man of New York had fallen desperately in love with 
our beautiful contralto, and was in the habit of tele- 
graphing ahead for flowers, and each night she sang, 
a veritable florist's display was passed over the foot- 
lights. To keep in touch with the company, he fre- 
quently sandwiched a basket of champagne and boxes 
of cigars for the male principals. All were remem- 
bered excepting George. He was left out in the wintry 
blast. He was very much chagrined, but not to be 
ignored, he wrote the gentleman, that, having played 
the part of Friar Tuck seventeen hundred times with- 
out a break, he thought he was entitled to remem- 
brance. When the next invoice came there was a box 
for George. He seized it triumphantly, bore it to his 
dressing room, set it up in a corner where he could 
look at it and think what a time he would have with 
those Perfectos when the opera was finished, and he 
was read}' for home. Our hero opened the box in the 
presence of his dressing-room companion. It was a 
beautifully decorated affair, the inside being lined 
with silver paper and tissue, and on top a note, 
which George opened with trembling hand and read: 

"Dear Frothingham, — In a letter received from you, you 
write that you have played the part of Friar Tuck seventeen 
hundred times. If you have, then you have made a request 




382 REMINISCENCES OF 

that number of times from the gaol window for an article 
of refreshment, which has never been granted. This is an 
endeavor to supply the omission." 

With dazed look "Frothy" threw off the covering 
and exposed what do you think? A tripe sandwich!!! 
Then the music started and the air blazed with male- 
dictions. No one dared to ask the comedian how he 
enjoyed the Perfectos. 

Our prima donna was the victim of another joke 
perpetrated by herself, in Butte, Montana. Marie 
Stone, alias "Suzette," in one of her exits in the opera 
of that name, was in the habit of carelessly humming 
some familiar air. "Annie Rooney" was just coming 
in vogue, and the prima donna had on this particular 
day just learned the tag, and she hummed it as she 
passed out at the first entrance. Amidst the most 
uproarious applause, she came back and bowed her 
thanks. Nay, nay, Pauline! that will not do, we want 
the song! and the uproar continued. She came back 
again, wildly gesticulating that she was unfamiliar 
with it. Never mind! we want it! The situation 
was funny, at first, but was getting to be embarrassing, 
when the genial comedian arose, and securing the 
attention of the audience reminded them that the 
opera was "Suzette" and not "Annie Rooney" and 
that the obliging prima donna could not keep on all 
night singing the only line she knew of it. Then they 
subsided, but it looked for a few minutes like reading 
the riot act to the miners. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 383 

In all of our travels through our beloved country 
we always held the open sesame to clubdom. The 
portals opened wide, and we were always welcome 
guests. To write a complete history of these more or 
less hilarious good times would require at least three 
sets of reminiscences. 

One of the most original, unique, and never to be 
forgotten seances, in which I was a partial participant, 
occurred in the early days of our organization, when 
we were in doubt as to the proper behavior with, or in, 
a club. My partner and myself were invited to a 
Saturday night revel of a club whose meetings for 
disturbing or being disturbed were rendered less pos- 
sible by being held on the top floor of a high building 
where "high jinks" would be appropriate. The pre- 
liminaries were an open fireplace, with a receiver 
hanging over the embers, always full of hot rum punch. 
On a table in the middle of the room was a large 
square of ice, scooped out and filled with raw oysters, 
the condiments for preparing the dish distributed, 
with the plates, about the ice house. On the other 
side of the room was a table spread with dainties for 
special guests. On this occasion we were the special 
guests. 

Soon after partaking of rum punch and oysters the 
"jinks" began. Everybody was called upon for a 
stunt and everybody did one, varied of course by the 
stunter, according to the condition of his inner self. 

I must stop here to write that one of the rules of 




384 REMINISCENCES OF 

the organization was, that whatever happened, no notice 
of it whatever was to be taken. 

After a prolonged and hilarious vaudeville, we took 
seats for the specialties, which were fine and well- 
served. Then the feast of reason and flow of soul 
began and the presiding officer called upon me. At 
this junction a fine-looking gentleman slapped his 
hand on the table and said, "There ! now I am to have 
the desire of my life. For years I have heard of Mr. 
Barnabee! now I am to hear him, and see him in all 
his glory." 

I rose and began my acknowledgments, but before 
I had articulated a dozen words, the rum punch 
claimed him for its own, and he sank into deep and 
gentle slumber. No one paid any attention to him 
and I finished my harangue. There were others, and 
during the whole affair my partner and I were nearly 
doubled up with suppressed mirth, but we obeyed the 
rule and said nothing. The vaudeville was now 
more pronounced and disregardful of strict propriety. 

Presently, in there walked a dapper looking chap 
with red curly hair and full dress suit. He was loaded 
to the guards. With unsteady gait, he walked up to 
the fireplace and took a great tumbler full of rum 
punch. Then he meandered to the table, filled 
a soup plate even full of oysters, reached out for the 
salt and pepper — and the rum punch asserted itself. 
He threw up his hands, fell back with a thud, the plate 
turned upside down on his broadcloth pants, and the 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 385 

oysters were distributed all over his anatomy. One 
large one lay across his ample shirt front, another 
lodged over his left eye, while two or three others 
rested in his curly locks. Oh! he was a sight! No one 
went near him, but the fun continued. 

I could stand it no longer, so I winked to my partner 
and we escaped from the orgies. It was then six o'clock 
in the morning and I give you my word, ladies and 
gentlemen, that when we closed the door, the gentle- 
man was still sitting at the table listening silently for 
Barnabee, while our curly-headed friend lay like a 
warrior taking his rest, with his oyster stew about him. 
When we reached the sidewalk a heavy snowstorm 
was prevailing, but we did not mind, and sat down 
upon the curb, and gave ourselves up to explosions 
of laughter that waked up our friends in the next 
street who were sitting up waiting for us. That was 
the rumpunchiest night I ever experienced. 

Speaking of sleepers reminds me of another story. 
On a certain night in February, 1898, those who 
attended at Baldwin's Theater in San Francisco were 
treated to a scene not down in the book, but which 
was so amusing as to divert attention from the stage 
to "the royal box." The occupant of the box was a 
smooth-shaven fellow, fair of complexion, well-groomed 
and correctly dressed. The opera interested him for 
a time and then his attention waned. It waned so 
rapidly, indeed, that the arms of Morpheus found no 
difficulty in enfolding him within a deep embrace. 



386 REMINISCENCES OF 

His head fell forward and, after a few intermittent 
jerks when memory returned, he slept the sleep of the 
just. The opera proceeded, the singers warbled and 
the man in the box continued to enjoy his nap. Miss 
Nielsen was singing a lay full of birdlike trills, the final 
note of which penetrated in its piercing clearness to 
the dulled ear of the sleeper. He awoke with a start 
and, noticing the audience was applauding, joined in 
calling for an encore for the song, of which he had 
not heard a word. I don't remember whether Miss 
Nielsen responded, but I have a very vivid picture of 
this particular "Cupid asleep" and "Cupid awake." 

I might go on and relate scores of stories about the 
Bostonians and their experiences. I will close this 
chapter with one showing how one woman can become 
infatuated with another. 

Once Miss Davis (of course, I mean Mrs. Davis) 
received a letter from a woman who had gone com- 
pletely daft over her. She declared that her love for 
her was akin to pain and filled four closely written 
pages so full of red-hot love messages that it frightened 
Miss Davis. She said she would call at 9 o'clock the 
next day to see her inamorata. That is an hour at 
which no theatrical people are ever stirring, unless 
the stern necessity of catching a train gets them out. 
But promptly at the hour the woman appeared. Miss 
Davis told the maid that no one was to be admitted 
until 3 o'clock, that she was ill. Instead of having the 
desired effect of driving the woman away, it simply 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



387 



kept her there, for she sat down in the hall and waited 
patiently for the appointed hour. By 3 o'clock the 
reports brought from the hall had really made Miss 
Davis very nervous and a little frightened. She sent 
word to the woman that she could see no one and for 
her not to come again, as she could not see her. The 
woman was not young and she did not succeed in 
seeing her charmer, but she always lavished presents 
on her. 



Chapter XXXIV 



"ROBIN HOOD" 

"Linked with the opera 'Robin Hood" the name of Barnabee is almost as 
closely allied as that of Jefferson with 'Rip Van Winkle.' Joe Jefferson is 
the only Rip — and Henry Clay Barnabee is the only sheriff of Nottingham — 
and woe to the unlucky comedian who has to follow in his footsteps unless he 
be of a high school of art indeed." — Atlanta Journal, March 14, 1903. 

THE season of 1889-90 brought us in touch with 
Messrs. Harry B. Smith, librettist, and Reginald 
de Koven, musical composer, both of Chicago. 
They had recently produced their first joint effort, 
"The Begum," with what may be called either failure 
as a whole or success in spots, as you choose. 

They tried the Bostonians with a second and more 
ambitious work, "Don Quixote." In our kindly- 
disposed judgment, we liked the music, and decided 
to take chances on the book. We did so — during one 
season, and that sufficed to prove that we were not des- 
tined to renew the triumphs of the immortal Cervantes. 
The galleries expected extravagant fun from the Don, 
and were disappointed; while the high-brows resented 
the un-literary liberties taken with their admired 
character. 

However "Don Quixote" was good in the repertoire 
for at least one windmill slugging-match a week, on 
our second trip to the Pacific Coast. 

388 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 389 

This time we took with us, as wardrobe mistress, 
the real and original Mrs. Malaprop of the nineteenth 
century, in the person of Clara — that's all — the wife 
of our assistant stage manager. She was a rare jewel, 
and in serious relations of life, loyal, industrious to the 
end. For many years she was indispensable to us, 
both as an aid and as a companion. 

Clara, like her spouse, was English. A free untram- 
meled use and mis-use of the letter H was her natural 
birthright; while in the "nice derangement of epi- 
taphs" she surpassed even Sheridan's imagination. 
Her husband summed up her characteristics, and 
incidentally his own, when he would say: 

"It's simply 'ell, the way she goes for me. But 
then, Clara's a dear good soul!" 

She was funnier than any libretto we had. Many of 
her unpremeditated bon mots took their savor from 
circumstances, the passing moment — they were like 
the foam upon the river, and not of a nature to go 
ringing down the corridors of time. However, a few 
choice specimens still survive. 

In the old St. Charles Theatre, N. O., she had found 
a little room where she fixed things to suit herself. 
One day someone said, "You have a cozy little place 
here, Clara." "Yes," remarked Clara, "it was full of 
refuge and rubbage but I got it cleaned out." 

She had a little cottage at Hough's Neck, Quincy, 
Massachusetts. On clear days the great dome of 
the State Capitol in Boston could be seen. She was 



390 REMINISCENCES OF 

proud of that fact, but always called it the "Gilded 
doom." 

Going over the mountains, she said: 

"H'l don't like these 'igh hattitudes — they makes 
me whiz. Just 'ear me hears sing!" 

Getting up one morning with "a cold in the 'ead," 
she was asked how she came by it, and replied: 

"Oh, like a hass, I slept with the transient hopen, 
and got it good and proper." 

The only coastwise defence put up for "Don Quixote" 
in San Francisco was, "Well, it will take more than one 
bad opera to kill the Bostonians." 

We got another one, entitled "Suzette," with which 
to test the friendship of the Golden Gate city. It was 
thought to be a possibility, but the prefix im soon had 
to be attached. It served merely as a stop gap be- 
tween failures — for our skies of fate now began to be 
heavily overcast. 

A herald ray of sunshine, though, presently struck 
us at Los Angeles, when we received a peace-offering 
which Smith and DeKoven had brought us in extenua- 
tion of "Don Quixote." That herald ray was about to 
burst upon a waiting world in dazzling effulgence, 
when we "tried out" the new piece in Chicago, on the 
ninth of June, eighteen hundred and ninety! 

Dear reader, have you not guessed? It seems almost 
a superfluity to inscribe here the magic name — 

ROBIN HOOD 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 391 

It was a spontaneous hit from curtain to curtain. 
"A mint," was what a prominent theatrical manager 
called the production, at its premiere; and so it proved. 

The "Ballade of Robin Hoode" is one of the oldest 
relics of English poetry. The story of the brave, gal- 
lant robber who never robbed anybody that wasn't 
able to be robbed handsomely, and who dispensed his 
plunder with a lavish hand among poor widows and 
orphans, has always had a singular interest for all 
generations. It has made frequent reappearances in 
literature, notably in Scott's "Ivanhoe." 

Considering the fact that the author has seen fit 
to take from, add to, and embellish the original tale 
of "Robin Hood," to fit the requirements of the stage, 
it may not be out of the way to give a brief outline of 
the story as presented by the "Bostonians." 

Robert, earl of Huntington, in the reign of Richard I, 
upon coming of age is fraudulently deprived of his in- 
heritance by the sheriff of Nottingham, who, in order 
to possess himself of the lion's share of the estate, con- 
trives, in the absence of the king, to confer it upon Sir 
Guy of Gisborne, his protege, together with the title 
and also the hand of the Lady Marian, his ward, whom 
an edict of the king has betrothed to the Earl of Hun- 
tington. Robert, exasperated by this nefarious pro- 
ceeding but powerless to resist, joins a band of outlaw 
yeomen. As their leader, under the name of "Robin 
Hood," he becomes the terror of the rich and highly 
born, while providing for and giving with a generous 




392 REMINISCENCES OF 

hand to the poor and oppressed, by whom he is greatly 
beloved. Through the treachery of one of his men he 
is apprehended and condemned to be hanged; and his 
arch enemy, the sheriff, is on the point of succeeding 
in all his iniquitous schemes. The marriage of Guy 
of Gisborne to the fair Marian is on the eve of consum- 
mation, as well as that of Annabel, the betrothed of 
Alan-a-Dale, whom the sheriff has coerced into a 
union with himself, when the king returns from the 
crusades. Robin Hood is pardoned and united to 
Maid Marian and the sheriff and his adherents brought 
to confusion. 

Briefly — and this will epitomize my views upon the 
operatic book in general — the play told a pretty and 
interesting story. Constructively, it has a clear be- 
ginning and a logical end, a climax at the effective 
point, and the element of suspense is well sustained 
throughout, to be satisfactorily wound up at last; the 
whole plot revolving consistently around the leading 
comic character. 

These practical merits had homely illustration in 
the remark of a countryman to his neighbor, reported 
to me by the cornet-player in the orchestra. 

The two had been nudging each other all the early 
part of the evening; and when the Sheriff of Notting- 
ham emerged from his house, leading Annabel to the 
wedding ceremony, one said, with some feeling: 

"Bill, do you s'pose that durned old son-of-a-gun is 
goin' to git the little gal, arter all?" 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 393 

Naturally, I endorse the general opinion that the 
piece owed its initial, and probably its permanent, 
success to its first interpreters — an unrivalled ensemble 
of its kind, including 

Marie Stone W. H. MacDonald 

Jessie Bartlett Davis Edwin Hoff 

Carlotta Maconda Eugene Cowles 

Josephine Bartlett George B. Frothingham 

and — excuse the reiteration, please! — Henry Clay 
Barnabee. 

The music, third of the important factors to render 
"Robin Hood" critic-proof, is bright, tuneful, pleasantly 
reminiscent, and happily wedded to the lyric words. 
With abridgements and additions which suggested 
themselves from time to time as the successive seasons 
rolled on, both musical score and book evolved into 
a well-nigh perfect whole, and it remains today prac- 
tically as it was first staged by Fred Dixon. 

In the presentation of "Robin Hood" and other 
works, during the dozen years of the Bostonians' sub- 
sequent career, a whole battalion of versatile artists, 
all worthy and some famous, assisted, with uniformly 
satisfactory results. To write of these individually 
as each and all merit, would be to unwarrantably 
exceed present limits of time and space. I must content 
myself here with merely writing their names, each 
accompanied by tender recollections and kind thoughts. 
As in the up-to-date playbill, the characters are named 
in the order of their appearance: 




394 



REMINISCENCES OF 



Guy of Gisbornes 
Peter Lang 
W. H. Fitzgerald 
Charles Lander 
Campbell Donald 

Friar Tuck 
George B. Frothingham 

Will Scarletts 
Eugene Cowles 
William Broderick 
John Dunsmuir 
Allan Hinckley 
Howard Chambers 
J. J. Wiebly 

Little Johns 
W. H. MacDonald 
Charles Hanley 
Joseph Ratliffe 
W. M. Dorrington 

Sheriff of Nottingham 
Henry Clay Barnabee 



Maid Marians 
Marie Stone 
Juliette Corden 
Caroline Hamilton 
Camille D'Arville 
Fatmah Diard 
Bertha Waltzinger 
Helen Bertram 
Hilda Clark 
Margaret Reid 
Eloise Morgan 
Alice Nielsen 
Helena Fredericks 
Grace Cameron 
Estelle Wentworth 
Frances Miller 
Blanche Morrison 
Grace Van Studdiford 
Antoinette Brown 
Gertrude Zimmer 

Alan-a-Dales 
Jessie Bartlett Davis 
Flora Finlayson 
Lucille Saunders 
Marcia Van Dresser 
Olive Celeste Moore 
Adele Rafter 
Maud Leekley 
Kate Condon 

Legitimate successor 

of Jessie Bartlett 

Davis. 

It was always an all-star cast. Each of the names 
here written recalls some individual point of excellence, 
some beauty of voice, face or figure, some grace of 
action, some thrill of joy, emotion or mirth, some 
cherished remembrance of song or opera. 

The celebrated number "O Promise Me" was not 
in the original version of "Robin Hood," but was in- 
troduced in the English production, and afterward 
arranged for Jessie Bartlett Davis. How she did sing 
it! I have already stated in one of the preceding 



Annabels 
Carlotta Maconda 
Grace Reals 
Mena Cleary 
Maud Ulmer 
Cora Barnabee 
Alice Nielsen 
Grace Van Studdiford 
Florence Quinn 
Lea Van Dyke 
Carolyn Daniels 
Alice Judson 

Dame Durden 
Josephine Bartlett 

Robin Hoods 
E. W. Hoff 
Tom Karl 
Harold Blake 
Ferdinand Schutz 
Jack Still 
Joseph Sheehan 
William Philp 
Albert Parr 
Frank Rushworth 
William C. Weedon 
Vernon Stiles 
Harold Gordon 
Douglas Ruthven 
Edward Johnson 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 395 

chapters how, during the nineteen hundred times we 
performed the opera, I enjoyed listening to that 
gorgeous contralto voice pouring forth its deep rich 
notes like a nightingale. 

There was but one Friar, one Dame Durden, and 
practically but one Sheriff; though Jerome Sykes, at 
one time our stage-manager, replaced me a few times 
in this role. Among the fair Annabels, I may be 
pardoned for specially mentioning one of my own 
kith and kin, my little niece, Cora Barnabee. 

What "Robin Hood" was to me, I have no words 
to tell. 

It was the crowning of my humble career, in the 
creation of a character the pleasant memory of which, 
I am not without hope, will endure after my final 
exit from this earthly stage. I have often wondered at 
the impression it has made; for it cannot be denied 
that the Sheriff was a sly, cunning, dishonest old 
rogue. My heart has been made glad with the thought, 
encouraged by the partiality of kind friends, that 
possibly some flavor of the personal individuality of 
the man behind the mask shone through the disguise 
and compensated for the simulated wrong-doing in 
the delineation. 

If so, then I am doubly grateful to the good Provi- 
dence that sent it to me, to help lighten the heart of 
worry, smooth the brow of care, and carry the message 
of smiles to the hundreds of thousands who were 
attracted and held by dear old "Robin Hood." 



396 REMINISCENCES OF 

We opened its first season in a rash endeavor to 
make the Boston Music Hall an operatic head center. 
The scheme did not work. We were obliged to enter 
1,300,000 cents on the loss column of the ledger as a 
memorial of our lack of business or horse sense. 

But we quickly made up this deficit in a long road 
tour, during which we tried keeping up the public 
appetite for "Robin Hood" by alternating with such 
heavy Grand Opera propositions as "Trovatore" and 
"Carmen," in English. 

Alas! the United States language does not lend 
itself gracefully to the rhythmic phrases of Italian or 
French music. "Addio, Lucia?" for instance, is all 
right in Italian; but when, in our own beloved vernacu- 
lar it becomes "Good-bye, Lucy!" the effect is painfully 
suggestive of a coon song. 

Moreover, it has always been my conviction that 
grand opera should be given by grand singers, amid 
grand surroundings. In our own case, it seemed pref- 
erable to give light opera with occasional grand opera 
effects than the reverse. This artistic opinion was 
corroborated by commercial box-office results. The 
comparison was tersely put by George, our advance 
agent, who gave his verdict on the financial outlook 
for "Carmen" in the following language of solemn ad- 
monition : 

"Barney: 'Robin Hood', terrapin; 'Carmen,' fringe!" 
— the latter word referring to the frayed trousers of 
comedians who have to walk home on the railroad ties. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 397 

And yet Mr. De Koven has tried in vain to find a 
successor to "Robin Hood." "Rob Roy" might have 
done it, possibly, if it had been entrusted to the Bos- 
tonians first. 

The "Red Feather" was to do the trick, "Happy 
Land" was to fill the bill, the "Student King" with its 
male chorus was a "sure pop" and the "Golden Butter- 
fly" was to be a gilded winner, but 

Mr. De Koven is still trying. 

As the hand of memory weaves the blissful dreams 
of long ago I want to say that there was never an opera 
like "Robin Hood" (the only story of its kind extant) 
and there never will be. There never was a company 
like the Bostonians and there never will be, and when 
a new Sheriff, according to the Seattle Times, takes up 
the staff that has fallen from the hand of Henry Clay 
Barnabee, "the newcomer may make the part more 
actively comic and get more laughs out of it, but he 
will never get the artistic touch, the velvety, of quiet 
humor out of it that the old man did." 



Chapter XXXV 



TOURING IN SEMI-"GRAND" 

MARIE STONE'S PARTING SONG. — SECOND INVASION OF 
NEW YORK. — A PROFESSIONAL MATINEE.— I BECOME 
A LAMB. — A GOLDEN DISCOVERY. — A WORD TO THE 
AMBITIOUS. 

" No other company of American singers ever has achieved such lasting suc- 
cess as did the Bostonians. For twelve years they toured the country, season 
after season, until they became a national institution." — The American History 
and Encyclopedia of Music. 

MARIE STONE (Mrs. W. H. MacDonald) 
reached the zenith of her success and fame 
simultaneously with our scaling the heights of 
Grand Opera. But the hard race had exhausted her, 
and with a farewell testimonial performance in her 
native city of Worcester, Mass., she took regretful 
and regretted leave of the stage. 

I shall never forget that night of June 9, 1891, when 
she rendered her parting song. A house crowded to 
the doors with friends, a stage lined and framed 
with flowers, and made to ring with the music and 
laughter of an admirable opera company, lavish tes- 
timonials of beautiful flowers and costly gifts, and 
withal, as a critic has said — "a splendid performance" 
— these were the salient features of that memorable 
occasion. 

398 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 399 

A souvenir program bore Miss Stone's portrait upon 
the frfltit, and, on the back, was the following tribute: 

"The inevitable but bitter brevity of an artistic career, 
such as has been so gloriously fulfilled by our friend and 
guest, is endurable to us only by virtue of our delightful 
memories of that brilliant career. 

"We lose our charming friend 'Suzette,' and with her 
troop away a score or more of other bewitching sisters in 
mimicry and music, but as they kiss their hands to us in 
that good-bye which shall send them forever from our sight, 
we are consoled that in that last look they shall see our 
hearts aflame and our hands outstretched in welcome to 
their mistress, our loyal friend, the true wife and woman, 
Marie Stone." 

It was a warm-hearted, enthusiastic and beautiful 
testimonial. The curtain rose on Oscar Weil's melod- 
ious "Suzette," with Miss Stone in the title role — a 
a character of her own creation — and fell on the artistic 
climax of the entertainment — the fourth act of "II 
Trovatore." 

After the singing had ceased and the company and 
a few invited friends had assembled on the stage, the 
genial comedian of the Bostonians rose and rendered 
the following entirely extempore but singularly felici- 
tous speech: 

"The curtain has descended upon the last act of your pro- 
fessional career. The public have made their last plaudits. 
It now only remains for us, your associates, to add their 
tribute. It is fitting that I, who have known you longest 
and best, should be their medium of communication. There- 
fore they deputed me today to purchase this beautiful gem. 



400 REMINISCENCES OF 

Flawless itself, it is emblematical of your professional and 
private character. As we have seen tonight, you retire in 
the zenith of your power. Let me now repeat in public what 
I have often said in private: That you are the most versatile, 
accomplished and brilliant vocalist on the American stage." 

And so Marie Stone left us, the recipient of a royal 
ovation. 

The Bostonians moved for a second time upon New 
York, in full "battle" array. The place left vacant by 
Miss Stone was taken by Caroline Hamilton, until 
Camille D'Arville could join us. 

The metropolitan press, chary at first in their praise 
of "Robin Hood," eventually loosened up, and the 
public was more than enthusiastic. Our professional 
matinee given October 20, 1891, at the Standard 
Theater was, as the New York Commercial Advertiser 
says, "one of the most agreeable affairs of the kind 
that ever took place in the city." 

It was a discriminating, intelligent, watchful and 
appreciative assemblage. Joseph Jefferson, W. J. 
Florence, Marie Wainwright, Mrs. Dion Boucicault, 
Henry E. Dixey, the Kendalls, Mrs. Yeamans, the 
Drews, Marie Tempest, Laura Bellini, Lillian Russell 
and "Jack" Perugini occupied boxes, while all over the 
house were scattered other stage celebrities and among 
them Messrs. Louis James, Frank Losee, Marshall 
Wilder I remember were there and a host of others, too 
many to call by name. To quote a New York critic — 
"It is impossible to say which enjoyed the afternoon the 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



401 



better — the people on the stage or those in the front of 
the footlights. It was play on both sides. The players 
in the body of the house were having a holiday — and 
such a holiday — and the players on the stage were 
furnishing the enjoyment, and enjoying it while they 
extended it with a heart in their labor of love." 

The outcome, you ask? Well, we received an in- 
dorsement not often accorded a new piece of com- 
paratively unknown authorship. With flying colors 
we went on our way rejoicing. 

At this time, too, the male principals of our company 
were esteemed worthy of election to the famous and 
only Lambs Club, an organization which for originality, 
loyalty and mutual good-fellowship is, to my thinking, 
after nearly a quarter of a century's membership, 
absolutely unrivalled. In its memorable "Star Gambol" 
I made my first, last and only plunge into black-faced 
minstrelsy. My success as a tambourinist and end- 
man is not conspicuously recorded in the annals, 
perhaps; but there was "glory enough for us all." 

The Bostonians waved the star-spangled banner of 
native art in their next three productions, which were: 
"The Knickerbockers," "The Ogallalas," and "The 
Maid of Plymouth," all of which were of the purest 
American brand as to book, lyrics, music, and inter- 
pretation. It was sixteen to one that we would win 
out, as we deserved; but our lesson was to be slowly 
and painfully learned, that if the American public 
really discriminated in favor of home-made art, which 



402 REMINISCENCES OF 

was doubtful, they were not going to rave over it in 
its new-fangled light opera habiliments. 

Though Miss D'Arville, in addition to her admirable 
Maid Marian, created a most attractive Katrina in 
"The Knickerbockers," and sang charmingly the 
soprano role in "The Ogallalas"; though Miss Walt- 
zinger and Miss Diard furnished beauty and talent 
in alternate performances; though Miss Margaret 
Reid brought Paris Conservatoire training to the part 
of the prim Puritan Maid; though the comedian did 
his best alternately as a Governor, a Professor, and 
the genuine article of grim old Pilgrim; and though 
the entire augmented company gave their accus- 
tomed good account of themselves — still American art 
languished on its native heath. Though of the early 
settlers of Massachusetts it were said that — 

"Amid the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea, 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
With the anthem of the free." 

the up-to-date New Yorkers didn't seem to care a 
"tinker's rap." 

In "The Ogallalas," though, we thought we had a 
walk-over, that opera being the pioneer attempt to 
introduce on the stage the aboriginal proprietors of 
the soil, in the music of our mutual fatherland, minus 
whoops. We had the valuable assistance and encourage- 
ment of Lieutenant-General Nelson A. Miles, who had 
won his spurs as an Indian fighter, and who was familiar 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



403 



with all sorts and conditions of the noble red man, his 
war-dance antics, musical eccentricities and facial 
landscape-painting. The general supplied us liberally 
with books, maps, and every sort of property and 
"palaphanalia," as Clara called it. 

The consequence was our production of "The 
Ogallalas" was charged with "atmosphere" at a density 
of about one hundred pounds to the inch. When, as 
the bland old paleface Professor of Botany, I had my 
wig-warmed in a realistic scalping scene, the first-night 
audience broke into a chorus of blood-curdling yells; 
and authors, librettists, managers and principals were 
caught, bound, gagged, and dragged to the footlights, 
like victims to the stake. 

All this, shortly, proved only too prophetic, for some- 
how "The Ogallalas" never drew paying audiences to 
their operatic pow-wows, and we were finally com- 
pelled to agree with the late General Sheridan that 
"the only good Indian is a dead Indian." 

The successive seasons brought more changes in 
our ranks. Camille D'Arville and Tom Karl left with 
their laurels for other, though not happier, spheres of 
action; and Mr. Hoff decided that the life-insurance 
business would be a better risk for him than comic 
opera. 

Our new recruits included Miss Eloise Morgan and 
Mr. Joseph Sheehan, both of whom came in for their 
respective shares of "Robin Hood" renown. 

Victor Herbert joined us for his first operatic ven- 



404 REMINISCENCES OF 

ture; and "Prince Ananias," despite its unpreposses- 
sing title, might have prevailed, had not its few grains 
of musical merit been overwhelmed in a bushel or 
more of libretto chaff. As it was, the experiment left 
us many pleasant recollections — notably of the personal 
success of that dainty Dresden-china comedienne, 
Miss Morgan, with whom I had rather a fetching 
duet and dance. 

In fact, the music of "Prince Ananias" was so good 
that we took it as a running mate with our perennial 
winner, "Robin Hood," on another trip to California, 
via the sunny Southland. Here Helen Bertram came 
into the game, and, playing Maid Marian for her 
trump card, won the prima donna trick with ease and 
grace. 

The immortal Clara, of our wardrobe department, 
continued to triumph in her Malapropian role. On 
one early morning start in Texas, as we were snuggling 
ourselves in the cold car to snatch an hour or two of 
ravel-knitting sleep, up pipes her high soprano voice 
with: 

"Well, we're the h'early worms this morning, and 
no mistake!" 

At lunch stations she would dart out of the car, and 
reappear with beaming face and a chicken-bone, ex- 
claiming: 

"Oh, I've 'ad such a nice physickee chicken!" 

In 'Frisco, this time, we "struck pay dirt" in the 
discovery of Alice Nielsen. She was obscured in the 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 405 

Tivoli company, but her fresh young voice, sympa- 
thetic face and vivacious personality could not long 
remain hidden, anywhere. 

We were on the verge of producing Oscar Weil's 
musical fantasia, "In Mexico," — which title was after- 
ward changed to "A Wartime Wedding" — and had 
a first-rate part to offer our new singer. She made 
good, and so did the entire company, in this piece, 
which seemed to fit our organization like a glove, 
and yet proved an incorrigible misfit with regard to 
the patronizing public. 

Miss Nielsen subsequently replaced Miss Bertram, 
and fulfilled her own and our expectations in a com- 
pany which included William Philp, the tenor, specially 
imported from London; Hilda Clark and the future 
Mrs. Van Studdiford, sopranos; Jessie Bartlett Davis 
and Marcia Van Dresser, contraltos; Cowles and 
Merrill, bassos; MacDonald and Hanley, baritones; 
Frothingham, Fitzgerald, Harry Brown, and the 
inevitable Barnabee, comedians. 

This ensemble, probably, registered the Bostonians' 
high-tide operatic mark. 

Here would seem to be the proper place to tell you 
how the Company recruited its voices, and to emphasize 
in a general way the thing that I have so often reminded 
many an ambitious singer, viz. — that there are a 
number of requisites for a young man or woman who 
expects to attain success on the operatic stage. 

I have told you that we discovered Miss Alice Nielsen 



406 REMINISCENCES OF 

in California, and Eugene Cowles in Illinois. Another 
singer we found was Miss Grace Reals, a singer in a 
Toledo church. Next to Maconda, Miss Reals was 
the original Annabel for two or three seasons. 

In almost every city in which the Bostonians ap- 
peared, we were called upon to help or advise some 
singers who thought that they had talents that would 
ensure them a successful stage career. 

There was not one in a hundred of the voices we 
heard that could have been utilized outside of the 
chorus, and that part of the organization was readily 
filled. I always told the applicants, as gently as I 
could, after running over their voices (for it was almost 
cruel to shatter the hopes of a young man or woman 
whose music teacher, or friends, had led them to be- 
lieve that they possessed more than ordinary talent) 
that they couldn't expect to make more than a living 
on the stage. 

A person to make other than a bare living in stage 
work must have temperament; something that is 
not possessed by everyone; and most of all a strong 
personality. If a young lady wants to become a singer 
in opera she must have a good voice, a pretty or at- 
tractive face; a good form — not too tall or short; and 
then she must, in addition to these qualifications, be 
different from the rest. 

A young man demands the same requirements. 
What can a tenor do if he is a short man, or a very 
tall one? He must be in good form, in every sense of 





Baruabee as Izzet Pasha In 

"Fatlnltza" 
Barnabee as sir Joseph Porter 

In "Pinafore" 
Barnabee as the Major In 

"Rob Roy" 



Baruabee as La Fontaine In 

"Ananias" 

Barnabee as Ezra Stebblns In 

"In Mexico" 
Barnabee as the Mayor of 
Perth In disguise In' Rob Roy" 



Barnabee as the Sheriff of Not- 
tingham In "Maid Marian" 
Barnabee as the Duke In 

"Fanchonette" 

Barnabee us Mayor In "Rob 

Roy" 




Sebastian Lang, as Caiaphas Anna Flunger as Maria 

Joseph Mayer as Prologus Anton Lang, as Christ 

Bertha Wolf as Magdalena Hans Mayr 



Thomas Rendl as Peter 
Peter Rendl as John 
Sebastian Bauer as Pilate 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 407 

the term. He must combine intelligence with his 
musical talents. 

Yes, dear friend, we did make a discovery once in 
a while. A voice was found whose owner had the 
required talent. It was like mining. You know a 
prospector will drudge along for many years searching 
for gold; he is sure he will find it some day, and if he 
keeps at it he usually uncovers a find that repays him 
for all his trouble. We kept trying voices; we knew 
they were somewhere, and that we would run across 
them some day — and we did. 

In my opinion, the music teachers of this country 
are to blame for many of the blasted hopes of young 
people who are musically inclined. The average 
teacher of vocal music will tell a pupil that they have 
a great future; that they can sing in grand opera; 
that they have a brilliant career before them if they 
continue their musical studies. This appears to be 
the principal stock in trade of the average vocal in- 
structor. The pupil will go on sometimes for years, 
with this dream keeping them up and at length they 
wake up; the illusion is dispelled, or they conclude 
that they are not appreciated or have not had the 
necessary opportunity. 

I don't see why the music teacher cannot tell a pupil 
that they have vocal talent; that they can cultivate 
the voice and it will prove to be an accomplishment 
that will be a source of pleasure to themselves and 
their friends. I cannot see why the teachers find it 



408 REMINISCENCES OF 

necessary to declare to the pupil that they are going 
to set the musical world on fire. 

I meet, or hear of cases of this kind continually; 
where young ladies and gentlemen have pursued this 
rainbow with all the energy of youth and ambition; 
who have wasted the best years of their lives in studying 
music with the expectation of some day becoming 
famous in the musical world; who dream out a brilliant 
career that can never be realized. The music teacher 
takes the money of the pupil, and that is all the interest 
the instructor has in the matter. 

The conditions are different in the old world. There 
they have schools where the "real thing" is taught; 
where performances are given, and the pupils who have 
talent for stage singing can demonstrate their talents 
and it does not take them long to decide as to their 
talents and fitness for the work; the public decides 
that for them, and they need no other verdict. 

I should like to see societies in the various cities of 
this country formed for the purpose of giving operatic 
productions. That would bring out talent and would 
give entertainment for the members and their friends. 
It would prevent the music teachers from deceiving 
young people by a method that it seems to me is very 
dishonest. 



Chapter XXXVE 



THE OBERAMMERGAU PASSION PLAY 

"It cannot be that, after all, 

The mighty conquests of the mind. 

Our thoughts shall pass beyond recall 

And leave no record here behind." 

—Col. David B. Sickels. 

IN a chapter devoted to my first stage appearance, 
in Jefferson Hall, Portsmouth, I referred, satiri- 
cally, to the endeavor of actors to obtain the center 
of the stage at all times, and wrote that the same 
desire had even invaded the performances of the 
"Passion Play" at Oberammergau, and intimated 
that I might write about it later. The time has arrived, 
but, of course, it would be absurd to write simply of 
that peculiarity, without an account of the whole per- 
formance. And so, dear reader, this will be an attempt 
to write truthfully of that presentation, as I saw it 
in the year 1900. 

Let me begin with an assertion that I do not 
believe any human being can portray the Savior. 
Since witnessing the play at Oberammergau, I am more 
than ever convinced of it. No being, other than divine, 
could ever represent that gentle, patient face, as it 
came to me to see it when reading the sacred narrative 
of His trials and sufferings. I have never observed, 

409 



410 REMINISCENCES OF 

except once, in statues or paintings, anything that 
could realize, to my mind, the personality of the 
Divine Being who gave voice to the Sermon on the 
Mount, and comfort to the sick and sorrowing. 

All over the continent, at every corner of the road, 
I observed attempts at representation of the Divine 
figure and face, but they inspired anything but adora- 
tion. 

At the entrance to the Cathedral at Antwerp, I 
noted a wonderful painting by Rubens, of a scene in 
the life of the Savior which is supreme in its life-like 
characteristics. In the Louvre, at Paris, I saw a face 
by a celebrated artist which has received the com- 
mendation and praise of thousands of people. And 
at the Paris Exposition, in 1878, there was a painting 
by a modern artist of the "Descent from the Cross" 
which came nearer realizing to my mind the form and 
features of divinity than any I had ever seen — but 
they all were unsatisfying and fell far short of portray- 
ing the individuality of the Man of Sorrows. 

I am sure my beloved country never did a wiser 
thing than preventing attempted portrayals here. 
Let the peasants of Oberammergau have it all — all 
the credit, all the money and all the criticism, which 
seem to be inseparable from the presentation of its 
sacred play. 

Perhaps I had better relate the circumstances that 
led up to my visit to Oberammergau, the little moun- 
tain village on the border between Bavaria and Tyrol. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 411 

In all our trips abroad wherever myself and wife found 
ourselves, for a length of time in a city, we always 
planned side trips to vary the experience. In the year 
1900 we were in Paris. One morning we were invited 
to breakfast with a lady, an old acquaintance of ours, 
who had just returned from the scene of the Passion 
Play, and to hear some young students give account of 
themselves, musically. After an hour or so of the 
pleasures of the table, interspersed with vocal offerings, 
the lady began to talk about the Passion Play, and 
gave us, in her own language, an account of the presen- 
tation. She showed us photos and autographs of the 
players. The faces quite impressed me, and I said to 
my wife, "My dear, Oberammergau must be our side 
trip this year." Our friend requested that I sign my 
name with the impersonators of the sacred characters. 
I rather objected, asking her if it would be thought 
proper for me to align myself in such company, con- 
fessing at the same time that often the humorous 
intrudes itself upon me, in the most serious situations. 
"Never mind," she said, "you sign your name and 
write anything you like." I took the pen, wrote my 
name, and then these words, "Birds of a Feather 
Flock Together." 

Next day, while going to the ticket office to procure 
my railroad passage and the assignment of the rooms 
in the village (the entire population, as there is no 
hotel, giving up their houses to accommodate the 
crowds), I met a gentleman from New York, who, 



412 REMINISCENCES OF 

having just returned from the festival, directed me as 
to my itinerary. I related to him the circumstances 
of the day before and asked him if it did not seem 
sacrilegious for me to sign my name with the Oberam- 
mergaus. Said he, "Sacrilegious? Nothing! If you 
are there the day before, or after, a performance, 
call and see Mr. Lang (The Christus), buy his 
picture, and perhaps he will invite you to beer and 
a sandwich." 

When we arrived at our destination, we were as- 
signed to the residence and care (at $5 per) of a lady 
of high degree, a literary person and novelist, and a 
charming hostess, occupying a chateau with a moun- 
tain background. Her guests were of the half and a 
half order, American and European, so that, at the 
first dinner, it reminded us, at our end of the table, of 
a fish dinner when the principal dish was "tongues 
and sounds." That was my first joke, and it estab- 
lished my reputation at once. We were a jolly 
party, more like a lot of people at a World's Fair, than 
for the serious purpose of our journey. 

We occupied the day before the ceremonies in visit- 
ing the abodes of all the characters who were to take 
part in the play, and were received most pleasantly 
and graciously. In each room were tables filled with 
photos of the characters, which we patronized liberally, 
paying twice as much as the prices at the stores. 
At Mr. Lang's we secured many photos, but the 
"beer and ^sandwich," as per my friend from New 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 413 

York, was omitted. I was glad of it, for I could not 
imagine it. 

We noticed, as we travelled about, that all the 
children of the boy persuasion in town wore long hair, 
and we were told that every parent hoped that their 
boy would, in time, take one of the sacred characters. 
We learned, too, that the simple players, when not 
rehearsing or performing, continue in their daily vo- 
cations. Anton Lang, for instance, is a potter by 
trade and his brother, Sebastian, who took the part 
of Caiaphas, the High Priest, in 1900, is an expert 
wood carver. 

It rained hard all of the time we were making our 
calls, and after completing them, with pleasant chats 
with the participants, we repaired to the chateau to 
converse with our "countess." 

In our preliminary chat before dinner, she let me in 
on the ground floor, so to speak, of a local happening 
which corroborated the "center of the stage" desire 
even among players supposed to be superior to worldly 
ambitions. It seemed that for the three previous 
decades, the part of "Christus" had been taken by the 
same person — Joseph Meyer. It had come to be felt 
that it was time for a younger man to be selected, and 
it was so ordered. It was a heart-breaking experience 
for the deposed, and it made him very ill He was on 
the verge of nervous collapse, when a happy thought 
suggested itself to the committee, which was, to assign 
to him the reading of the prologue, before the living 



414 REMINISCENCES OF 

pictures, which had formerly been spoken by the 
choirmaster. This settled matters.* 

Thus it was, that the next morning, after we had 
taken our seats, and the auditorium filled, that this 
towering personality appeared, followed by a proces- 
sion of choristers, strode to the "center of the stage," 
faced the audience, and delivered, with strong and 
resonant voice, the prologue to the first tableaux. 
There were a number of these pictures, and full oppor- 
tunity was given to the deposed one to do his share, 
to his heart's content. 

Before the scene which followed, which was sup- 
posed to corroborate the prophecy of the picture, there 
was singing by solo voices, and it seemed to me that 
during the play, which lasted from 8 o'clock A. m. 
till 6 o'clock p. M., with two hours intermission at noon, 
each one of the choristers, thirty-four in number, sang 
a solo. There was one good tenor among them, but 
the remainder ranged from indifferent to bad. 

The orchestra and the orchestral music were of a 
piece, bad, and, to use a common expression, "scratchy" 
— certainly not written or executed by the most com- 
petent German talent. 

The tableaux were all quite effective, not more from 
their arrangement than for the large number of people 

* In 1910 the committee had a similar experience. Thomas Bendl, who 
had played the part of Peter in 1900, was succeeded by a younger man. 
The blow almost crushed the venerable player, but the committee were 
aware of how inexpressibly hard it was for him to give up the role, voted him 
the part left vacant by his successor. Bendl, therefore, remained in the cast, 
playing the part of Simon of Bethany. — Editor. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 415 

concerned. It seemed to me, in some of them, there 
were none of the village people left at home. 

In one tableaux, every one on the stage was in the 
attitude of rapt attention to something that was 
expected to appear, and to heighten the illusion, as 
they no doubt supposed, a carved wooden dog, in the 
same attitude, was placed down in front. In this place, 
I will not describe the effect upon me, except to write 
that I could not see anything but that dog. 

In the scene in the Temple and the driving out of 
the money changers, I rather expected to see some 
confusion and irritation, but with the coming down 
to the front of two traders, each with a cage from 
which they released two pigeons that flew out over 
the opening between the stage and auditorium, there 
was no excitement whatever. 

In the scene before Pilate's house with the crowd 
clamoring for him, I was struck with the wonderful 
precision of utterance of that number of voices. Of 
course, it is absurd to think of a mob of four or five 
hundred speaking with one voice. It would naturally 
be a babel of sounds, but the absolute precision with 
which they spoke the words of long paragraphs was 
something marvelous in the matter of practice. 

The most impressive part of the whole presentation 
was the washing of the feet of the disciples by the 
Lord and Master, which was very much deepened and 
heightened by distant music. The whole scene was 
touching and tender in the extreme. 



416 REMINISCENCES OF 

The scene of the Crucifixion (I could hardly look at, 
and cannot write about it) was so painful when 
Christus disappeared behind the curtain and the noise 
of hammering fell upon our ears. When the curtain 
was drawn aside and disclosed the figure suspended 
by clamps on the edges of the cross, I could not take 
more than one look. The cry "Eloi, Eloi, Lama 
Sabachthani" seemed too real, and when the soldier 
pierced with his spear the side of Christus, and red 
blood followed its withdrawal, I could not endure the 
medieval realism of the scene. 

To conclude, there was not a real actor in the cast, 
all very amateurish, excepting Judas (Johann Zwink), 
who displayed dramatic ability. Perhaps it was better 
then, for any effort of elocution would have destroyed 
the simplicity of the recital. I hope I have not written 
one word, for I would not willingly, that would take 
away from any sincere auditor one iota of comfort 
in seeing the play. I have not followed it in its en- 
tirety — I could not. It was twelve years ago that I 
saw it, and as I made no notes, memory is liable to 
fault, but I have written it just as I remember having 
seen it, and my impression of it, pardonable or otherwise. 

When we got back to' the chateau after our strenuous 
day I learned the history of the play. It seems that 
about three hundred years ago a pestilential disease 
broke out in the valley. Only Oberammergau was 
spared. All roads leading to the little village were 
guarded day and night, but somehow or other, a native 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 417 

who had been working in a nearby village managed to 
pass the guards. The result was that the family of 
the man were stricken with the disease and died. So 
rapidly did the plague spread that in some cases whole 
families passed away. Hardly a home was spared. 
Then it was that some went to the church, made their 
supplication and vowed that if God would hearken 
unto their prayers that they would present from time 
to time the story of Christ's last days. According to 
records their prayers were answered and the Passion 
Play was staged. 

But in these days the play has changed! Possibly, 
the participants feel the same, but the spirit of com- 
mercialism, the "how much is there in it for me" spirit, 
has crept in to an extent, which has deprived it largely 
of the effect it would otherwise have had. The whole 
village has become a large hostelry (1,900 rooms and 
3,500 beds, with prices ranging from thirty-seven cents 
to five dollars), the people, like the occupants of homes 
near summer resorts in this country, renting them at 
high prices, and the vending of photos and souvenirs, 
and that large amphitheater packed to the roof with 
a summer run of audiences, at $2.50 to $5.00 a seat — 
gives it an aspect very much at variance with the de- 
votion of the earlier and pious peasants, who depicted 
the trials and sufferings of "Jesus Christ and Him 
Crucified" as an act of devotion among themselves. 

After bidding our hostess a courteous and pleasant 
adieu, with many remembrances of her courtesy^and 



418 REMINISCENCES OF 

hospitality, we took the night train for Paris, sitting 
bolt upright the whole journey in company with a 
noisy and boisterous party of sightseers. 

The next day, after our arrival there, we visited the 
catacombs, with its millions of bones arranged in 
every conceivable form, made an ascension in Gifford's 
balloon, in company with thirty-four other persons 
who were anxious to leave the world — temporarily, of 
course — and, finally, to reach the other extreme, took 
a novel trip into a mountain mine. But — never again ! 

As to Oberammergau and its drama, I hope no one 
will be deterred from going there in 1920 and seeing 
and learning for themselves, but I prefer the image 
I have formed in my own heart and mind of the Divine 
Being who said — 

"I am the resurrection and the Life; whosoever believeth 
in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever 
liveth and believeth in Me shall never die." 



Chapter XXXVII 



"THE SERENADE" AND EVENING SHADOWS 

A GENUINE COMIC OPERA. — BARNABEE A "RIP." — 
ULYSSES IN SHERWOOD FOREST. — LIST OF OPERAS. — 
THE BARNABEE TESTIMONIAL BENEFITS. — 'TIL WE 
MEET AGAIN. 

"In these days of alleged comic opera companies, too often composed of 
shrill-toned prima donnas, kittenish tenors and acrobatic comedians, it is always 
a pleasure to welcome the Bostonians." — New York Herald. 

WE were now searching diligently for another 
"Robin Hood," and illusions of such a find 
occasionally permeated our thought-cells. A 
number of authors and composers, besides the original 
pair, enthusiastically shouted "Eureka!" But the 
vast majority of people in the seats silently but none 
the less effectively responded: "Come off your perch!" 

Nevertheless, we did strike it. It was "The Sere- 
nade." In this delightful creation Messrs. Herbert and 
Smith handed us out an artistic financial atonement 
for the four-flushing "Knickerbockers" and the false- 
throated "Prince Ananias," in what I regard as the 
best American contribution to genuine comic opera — 
as distinguished from musical comedy, which I con- 
sider "Robin Hood" to be — up to now revealed. 

"The Serenade" furnished a spanking vehicle for 
the various talents of the company I have named 

419 



420 REMINISCENCES OF 

above. The public agreed with our estimate, this time, 
and we enjoyed five more "fat" years with the repertoire 
thus strengthened. The great Pacific Northwest — 
Portland (Oregon), Tacoma, and Seattle, were in- 
vaded, and our success there lured us on to Victoria 
and to Vancouver. 

Previous to this, however, we had tempted Provi- 
dence, Rhode Island, in a comic-operatic "Rip Van 
Winkle," written and composed by a Mr. Jules Jordan, 
of the city named. I was Rip. Though I shied at first, 
in a weak moment I consented to have a go at the part. 

It lasted just long enough for me to have my photo- 
graph taken in a King Lear-ish make-up. Yet two 
sweetly cherished memories remain: my scenes with 
the children, and the tones of Jessie Bartlett Davis' 
voice as she sang "The Land of Nod." 

But the critics soon put "Rip" to sleep for all time. 
One irrelevant scribe, to point a moral or adorn a tale, 
I don't know which, quoted the story of an epitaph 
intended to read, "Let her Rest in Peace," but which 
the tombstone sculptor, being cramped for room, 
abbreviated to: 

"LET HER 
R. I. P." 

On this Western journey we had a sleeping car of 
our own, with two colored porters attached, whom 
we used to indulge alternately with free passes to the 
show. One of our programmes gave the following 
scenic summary: 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 421 

Act I. — A Rocky Pass. 

Act II. — Monastery and Convent of St. Ursula. 

Act III. — Same as Act First. 

The porter who got off to see this piece returned to 
the train before 10 o'clock. When questioned by his 
mate as to why he had left the theatre so early, he 
pointed to the programme and said: 

"Well, I done saw de two acts, and den de pro- 
gramme says 'Act three same as de fust! Golly! I 
didn't want to see dat fust act all over again, so 
I come home." 

With Helen Bertram's return to the fold, and Helena 
Fredericks, soprano, and William Broderick, basso, 
added to our numbers, we now acquired "Rob Roy," 
but he did not turn out a very "hot Scotch." 

"Ulysses" came next. There Greek met Greek, and 
it was the tug of war, indeed. It was a funny episode — 
just funny enough for one, but not two funny, and an 
expensive joke to the partnership proprietors of an 
operatic outfit. We had ordered full sets of new 
scenery and props — Troy, Athens, a Fairy Grot, and 
a papier-mache horse twenty feet long and as many 
hands high, with a trap-door in his ribs for the co- 
median's hiding-place, entrance, and exit. But the 
train bringing all this elaborate investiture was some- 
how held up, and we played "Ulysses" the first night — 
which also was very near the last — with "Robin 
Hood" scenery and costumes, showing the unwonted 
spectacle of Greek warriors clad in the Lincoln green 



422 REMINISCENCES OF 

of medieval England, disporting themselves in the 
classic shades of Sherwood Forest! 

Good-bye eighteen thousand plunks! Nay — 

"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to Manhattan we hurried; 
Not a critic allowed a tear to gloat 

O'er the storehouse where our Uly lay buried." 

The redoubtable horse of Troy may still be seen on 
application at the cellar door of the Euclid Avenue 
Opera House, Cleveland. 

Our misfortunes never came singly, but were mostly 
either twins, triplets, or — as Clara would say — "quad- 
rangles.' 

It was at this juncture that Jessie Bartlett Davis, 
whose name and fame were indissolubly linked with 
those of the Bostonians, listened to the siren call of 
vaudeville, and left us. 

And then we were caught with two more operatic 
"dead ones," "The Smugglers" and "The Vice-Roy." 
The latter justified the first syllable of its name, so 
far as the attributes of its leading character went. 
The music, by Victor Herbert, was worthy of his 
name. The interpreters were re-enforced by Grace 
Cameron, Marcia Van Dresser, John Dunsmuir, and 
Frank Rushworth. But — 

Well, the storehouse now began to bulge with the 
debris of defunct works of art crowded into it. 

Our Waterloo awaited us, not far off. 




HENRY CLAY BARNABEE AS LORD ALLCOCK IX 1 RA DIAVOLO" 




Upper left hand: Mr. and Mrs. Barnabee on their wedding day 
Upper right hand: Mr. and Mrs. Barnabee somewhat later 
Lower picture: Mr. and Mrs. Barnabee in 1890, on the road 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 423 

We had been advised by our astute business mana- 
gers that our next effort must be "a knock-out," or — 

Well, it was a knock-out — only it knocked in the 
wrong direction. 

We committed the egregious folly of trying to suc- 
ceed a success, on the "continued-in-our-next" plan. 
In other words, we fondlj r hoped that the characters 
in "Robin Hood" would bear transplanting into the 
soil of a new plot and other surroundings. 

The new environment was supplied and peopled 
with such rising artists as Grace Van Studdiford, Olive 
Moore, W. C. Weedon, Harold Gordon, Alice Judson 
and Allan Hinckley. 

"Maid Marian" was the name of the new mistress 
of our destinies. She turned them sharply in the direc- 
tion of disaster. But we made one more gallant 
sortie before the final surrender. 

The celebration at the Academy of Music, New 
York City, of the twenty-fifth birthday of the Bos- 
tonians, to which our illustrious godfather, Henry 
Watterson, and our time-honored friend, "Joe" Jeffer- 
son, lent the eclat of their assistance, preceded our 
setting out on what proved to be our farewell tour. 
In this forlorn hope, besides our battle-scarred veterans, 
Agnes Brown, Gertrude Zimmer, Kate Condon and 
Douglas Ruthven joined. 

It was a most disastrous theatrical year. 

We should have listened to warnings, and have 
"come in" early to avoid the crash. But with the in- 



424 REMINISCENCES OF 

fatuation of despair, we struggled on, through one-night 
stands, through a financial blow occasioned by the Iro- 
quois Theater holocaust in Chicago, through the wearing 
and costly journey to the far Pacific coast, once more. 

Here we made one last attempt to stem the tidal 
wave of calamity, with one more offering to the ele- 
ments. "The Queen of Laughter" it was called. 

At Atlantic City, New Jersey, by the sad sea waves, 
on Young's Pier, with a ten-cent audience in the rear 
looking coldly on, the Queen of Laughter smiled her 
last, and the proud Bostonians went down, with the 
colors of their long and valiant career still flying. 

Yea, the end had come! The last ripple of applause 
had been washed up by the sea — the last chord of 
music had sounded — the last note sung — the last 
curtain drawn — the last light out — the last exit at the 
back of the gilded sphere — 

Words are useless, vain! History and memory 
must comfort the mourner as well as serve the preacher. 
That's all that's left. 



The Bostonians gave the United States the most 
successful school for operatic study that this country 
has ever had, and from its ranks graduated an aston- 
ishing number of well-known singers. No other or- 
ganization has done more, if as much, toward assisting 
American writers or opera. 

During the years dating from the founding of the 
company to its farewell tour, we offered the American 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 425 

public many operas, including a number of master- 
pieces considered to be the best and highest achieve- 
ments in romantic light opera. 

Today, I thoroughly believe musical comedy to be 
the entertainment of the future. It has all the beauties 
of the play and the music besides. In my opinion the 
story should be more prominent than the music. The 
latter ought to be written for the libretto rather than 
vice versa. In my time I have seen musical comedy 
rise to pre-eminence on the stage, and I am convinced 
it will more than hold its own in years to come. 

In looking over the long list of operas in which I 
have played many parts, I cannot help but think that 
throughout my operatic career, I strove to teach my 
fellow-beings what Shakespeare has penned in verse 
that — 

"To frame the mind to mirth and merriment, 
Bars a thousand harms and lengthens life." 

But, dear reader, even though every laugh pulls a 
nail out of our coffins, my theory is that an entertain- 
ment must appeal to more than one human sentiment 
to be permanently popular. Even though my talent 
lay in mimicry and comic specialties, if I were to play 
a character exactly to my liking, it would be a role 
that would often move an audience to merriment, but 
would have a dominating current of pathos that would 
cause laughter to cease now and then and bring tears 
to the eyes of the people. 

There is something in our human nature that makes 



426 REMINISCENCES OF 

the dividing line very narrow between tears^and 
laughter, which makes a strong sense of humor and a 
sympathetic appreciation of pathos almost twin char- 
acteristics in some men, and I think that this enters 
very largely into the compositions of most comedians. 

Regarding music, I might add to what I have already 
written in this volume that I firmly believe it to be 
the stone bulwark that defends mercy, peace, charity 
and humanity. 

For the sake of preservation and for a place in 
"operatic reviews," I herewith spread upon this tablet 
of memories the names of the operas and the list of 
characters I impersonated while a member of that 
sterling company — the famous Bostonians: 

Name Musical Composer Barnabee's Role 

The Poachers Jacques Offenbach . . Marcasson, a mule driver 

Dorothy Alfred Cellier Lurcher, an eccentric 

sheriff 
Don Pasquale Gaetano Donizetti . . Don Pasquale, an anti- 
quated bachelor 

Don Quixote Reginald De Koven . . Don Quixote 

Mignon Ambroise Thomas 

Pygmalion and Galatea . Von Suppe & Thomas Chrysos, patron of the 

arts 

Robin Hood Reginald De Koven . . Sheriff of Nottingham 

The Knickerbockers Reginald De Koven . . The Governor 

The Ogalallas Henry Waller Professor Andover 

Prince Ananias Victor Herbert La Fontaine, a strolling 

impresario 
In Mexico, or A War Time Ezra Stebbins, a droll Yan- 

Wedding Oscar Weil kee 

The Serenade Victor Herbert Duke of Santa Cruz 

Rip Van Winkle Jules Jordan Rip Van Winkle 

Maid Marian Reginald De Koven . . Sheriff of Nottingham 

Rob Roy Reginald De Koven . . Mayor of Perth 

Vice Roy Victor Herbert Vice Roy 

The Smugglers Anon Don Brandieu 

Maid of Plymouth G. Thome The Elder 

Queen of Laughter Anon The King 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 427 

After twelve years of touring the country, the cur- 
tain had descended on the Bostonians for the last time. 
It was a sad finale, but not quite the finish of Barnabee. 

There were debts to be wiped out, and a large- 
salaried vaudeville offer came opportunely. Just as 
the skies were clearing again, in one fell moment, not 
thirty minutes after singing and illustrating the 
serviceable old "Cork Leg," the ligaments of my own 
knee suddenly snapped, and that engagement termi- 
nated. 

I spent many long months on a stretcher, and upon 
my partial recovery, I made a brief try-out in an 
ephemeral playlet which had "Clover" for its central 
idea. But those concerned did not find themselves 
"in clover," materially speaking, to any appreciable 
extent. 

Then came what I may call the crowning of my 
career, in the two testimonial benefits given in my 
honor, in New York and Boston. The first was carried 
to gratifying success by my comrades of the Lambs' 
Club; the second, by old-time friends of my dear 
adopted city. 

Perhaps, dear reader, the following lines from the 
New York Herald are able to tell you more than my 
feeble pen could of what really took place on the 
afternoon of December 11, 1906, when the Lambs, 
loosed from their fold, skipped over on old Broadway 
and made merry for Mrs. MacDonald and the Lamb 
that couldn't gambol. 



428 REMINISCENCES OF 

"One of the largest audiences ever crowded into the 
Broadway Theater attended the testimonial performance 
given yesterday afternoon, under the auspices of the Lambs' 
Club, for Mr. Henry Clay Barnabee and Mrs. William H. 
MacDonald, former members of the Bostonians. The total 
receipts were more than $22,000, which did not include the 
cancellation of notes given by Mr. Barnabee to friends for 
$10,000, which were destroyed in favor of the actor when 
it became known that he was in financial difficulties. One 
of these notes was given to the late Senator M. A. Hanna, 
and when he died it was left to his widow. 

"When Mrs. Hanna learned that Mr. Barnabee was going 
to have a benefit she sent word to the men in charge 
of the testimonial that she had destroyed the note of 
the actor, as did two other persons, who held Mr. Bar- 
nabee's notes for $5,000. These notes were secured by 
life insurance held by the aged actor, and by their holders 
giving them up, they as much as presented Mr. Barnabee 
with $10,000. 

"Mr. Barnabee himself appeared upon the stage and 
read an elegant and touching appreciation in behalf of 
himself and Mrs. MacDonald of the kindness of all who had 
assisted in the benefit. At the end the aged actor and singer 
broke down and wept. 

"There were many interesting features of the benefit held 
yesterday afternoon. Mrs. E. L. Fernandez, who is always 
on hand when there is any charity work for the people of 
the stage to be done, had charge of the young actresses who 
sold programs, and raised more than $800. A program 
containing the autographs of all those who appeared at the 
benefit was auctioned off by Mr. Raymond Hitchcock and 
bought by Mr. George Kessler for $250. 

"Every one of those who volunteered to appear at the 
benefit did so, which in itself was a remarkable feature. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 429 

"It would take much space to tell all about the perform- 
ance. Those who took part included practially all of the 
stars, leading men and women, and many others of the 
stage celebrities now appearing in Broadway. Mr. Victor 
Herbert and his orchestra played a fantasie from 'The Seren- 
ade' as an overture, which was followed by an address by 
Mrs. Fiske and written by Mr. Clay M. Greene, which paid 
a tribute to Mr. Barnabee. 

"Others on the program, which began at one o'clock and 
lasted until after six o'clock, included Mr. Lew Fields and 
company, in the duel scene from 'About Town' ; Miss Blanche 
Ring, in some songs; Mr. Henry Miller and Miss Margaret 
Anglin, in the first act of 'The Great Divide'; Miss May 
Irwin, in a song; Miss Eleanor Robson and company, in a 
one-act play entitled 'A Tenement Tragedy,' and Miss Rose 
Stahl and company, in second act of 'The Chorus Lady'; 
Miss Lillian Russell, accompanied by her daughter, Miss 
Dorothy, at the piano in two songs; Miss Hattie Williams, 
in a selection from 'The Little Cherub,' supported by a chorus 
made up of well-known actors, including Messrs. Fritz 
Williams, Edmund Breese, Ernest Lambart, Edward Hol- 
land and W. L. Abingdon; Miss Louise Dresser in a song 
entitled 'My Gal Sal'; Mr. William Gillette, Miss Marie 
Doro and Miss Lucille La Verne, in the supper scene from 
'Clarice,' and Mr. Henry Clay Barnabee and all of the prin- 
cipal comedians now appearing in Broadway in the tinkers' 
chorus from 'Robin Hood.' 

"Others who helped to make the benefit the big success 
it was were Messrs. John Drew, Kyrle Bellew, Forbes 
Robertson, Henry Leoni, Miss Anna Held and Mile. Dazie." 

I am glad to be able to give here the oratorical effort 
which after an afternoon of ovation my faltering 
tongue was able to articulate: 



430 REMINISCENCES OF 

"The clock is striking and the hour is late; I must not 
detain you but for a moment. If I had the tongues of men 
and of angels and could sufficiently command myself, it 
would be impossible for me to give adequate expression to 
the emotions that throng upon me in the presence of this 
imposing and overwhelming demonstration coming to me 
in my young old age, and embodying that which should 
accompany old age— love, honor, obedience, troops of 
friends, and to this dear woman, the artist associate and 
loved companion of my professional career, remembering 
and lamenting as we do him who has gone. To have lived 
to see this day which, while memory holds its seat, will 
be the day of days, is worth all the struggles and troubles 
we have passed, and to have deserved this tribute fills our 
very souls with joy unspeakable. We mingle in our thanks- 
giving the Lambs' Club, whose name is the very synonym 
of loving friendship; the energetic and earnest committee 
to whom this enterprise, from its inception to this glorious 
conclusion, has been a labor of love; my comrades and 
friends, the ladies and gentlemen of this noble and loved 
profession, to whom the call of the needy and deserving has 
always been the open sesame to their hearts and hands, and 
who have joined to make this occasion memorable; these 
gentlemen here, whose faces are familiar, and their beloved 
and inspiring leader; the ladies and their director who have 
been distributing the records of this occasion and the flowers 
that bloom for all; the good people in the cities of this great 
country, 'from the center all 'round to the sea,' whose 
memory of us in the days of our pilgrimages is evidenced 
now in golden friendship; and last, but by no means least, 
this glorious assemblage of New York's best and loveliest, 
who have poured into our laps their bounteous tributes of 
good will. Mere words are nothing. To all of you we can 
only say that if it is more blessed to give than to receive, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 431 

you have quaffed abundantly of the waters of joy, and if, 
as one of the great masters of speech has said, 'Gratitude is 
nearest heaven,' then we are listening to the celestial music. 
To each and all we thank you from our hearts, and, in the 
language of Tiny Tim, 'God bless us, every one.' " 



The Boston Benefit, too, was an illuminating event 
of contemporaneous stage history. A host of artists 
paid me a generous tribute, for which any man might 
be grateful and proud to the end of his days. Mayor 
Fitzgerald alluded in an eloquent and touching address 
to the fact that the splendid organization which had 
been my pride had borne the name of the fair city of 
Boston with honor and renown. 

It was a heartwarming occasion. Pretty actresses 
disposed of flowers and programs and every performer 
in the city had been willing and eager to help in the 
benefit. To quote the Boston Globe: "Surely no man 
in the profession in Boston ever got a more convincing 
testimony than Mr. Barnabee of the regard in which 
he was held." 

The Boston Theatre was crowded. The box-office 
showed that there wasn't an empty seat; many of 
them, especially the boxes, had been sold, turned in 
and sold again. Standing room was at a premium. 
Groups stood patiently hour after hour, only sinking 
for brief rests on the lounges of the lobby while the 
curtain was down. The lobby itself looked, as some- 
one has remarked, "like opera night with two Carusos 
singing." 



432 REMINISCENCES OF 

After the address by the chief executive of the city 
I tried to extend my humble thanks to that vast 
audience. But mere words, my friends, could not fully 
express what was in my inner self. Far from it! 

However feeble it may seem to you, in recognition 
of all that had been showered upon me by loving 
friends, I am willing to put my address on record here. 
In reading it, I ask you to remember this: that what- 
ever may seem lacking in my feeble response is sealed 
up in my heart and memory — they are the vaults in 
which cherished remembrances and love hold sway 
and will continue to do so long after my voice and this 
book have passed away. 

"Fifty-two and a half years ago, an absolutely unknown 
quantity, I sat in these seats and saw one of the first per- 
formances ever given beneath this dome. Twenty-eight 
years ago, after a varied career, always resisting the many 
calls to adopt the stage as a profession, I came over the side 
of the good ship Pinafore, then lying at anchor in this Boston 
harbor, and made my first bid for comic opera popularity. 

"By a pleasant coincidence, the voice of the gentleman 
now manager of this theater and whose graceful courtesy 
donates its use today, was the first, in the words of Sir 
Joseph and Hebe, 'ready to call me to a stage life,' which 
I hope you may think has been moderately successful. And 
by a similar coincidence, this gentleman sitting here (Mr. 
Lothian) was the one who in my trepidation kept me from 
getting mixed in my lines. 

"This afternoon, after a career of over fifty years, and at 
a period of life to which I could not reasonably have expected 
tof arrive, and at a moment of personal pride to which my 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 433 

fondest hopes could not have looked forward, I am here 
the recipient of this splendid ovation, on both sides of the 
curtain, and find myself unable to adequately voice my 
gratitude. 

"To the ladies and gentlemen of the committees who have 
assiduously devoted themselves to this demonstration of 
good will; to the gentlemen of the press, who have united 
with enthusiasm to enhance the interest and profit of the 
compliment; 

"To the good friends who have so generously contributed 
to my comfort and content for the remainder of my life; 

"And to you who have made this occasion an overflow 
of kindness; the array of artists from every sphere of public 
approval who have come to honor me and entertain you, 
among them a Boston girl who is doing so for the second time; 

"To the musicians and musical directors, the stage direc- 
tors and their assistants, and to all who have aided in making 
this a grand success; 

"Last to mention, but first in my affection, that splendid 
club, Boston's pride and mine, old members and new, who 
have come here to make this the proudest and happiest 
moment in my musical career — 

"To each and all I give all I have, my love and deepest 
gratitude. Every name will be enshrined in memory. May 
God bless you all." 

And now, in bringing to a close the imperfect account 
of these ramblings, I desire to tender my heartfelt 
thanks to you who have followed me with such patience 
as may be. There must be many sins of omission as 
well as of commission, for all of which I am sorry. Of 
this humble history, I can only say, with Touchstone: 
"'Tis a poor thing, but mine own." 



434 REMINISCENCES OF 

Whether or not I shall ever return to public life is 
a matter of conjecture. But of this I am sure — that 
whatever betide, somewhere, sometime, somehow, we 
shall all meet again. 

And here ends "Barnabee's Itinerarium," in pursuit 
of the 

Chaplet of Fame 



Good-Night 



Chapter XXXVIII 



FRIENDLY MEMORIES 

"Friendship is the shadow of the evening, which strengthens with the setting 
sun of life." — La Fontaine. 

DURING the making of this volume, the editor 
has received many letters from friends of the 
"Grand Old Man" inquiring as to when these 
reminiscences and reflections would be off the press. 
Aside from this general note of inquiry, each letter has 
contained some glowing tribute, an added line, as it 
were, bespeaking the relation of the wielder of the pen 
to the venerable comedian and singer. 

It has been no small pleasure to receive such rare 
and interesting letters, and, as their contents are very 
fragrant, the editor has gathered them together and 
pinned them here as a sumptuous offering from a few 
of those who have known Mr. Barnabee best — either 
as a friend, a fellow, or an adopted father. 

In extending this appreciation to Mr. Barnabee, 
the editor joins others in remarking that there never 
was a rose without a thorn. Fragrant as the pages are 
with the perfume of love and success, still they are wet 
with the dews of regret and sympathy. 

The contributors from near and far join in affec- 
tion's tribute of sympathy at the demise of "The 

435 



436 REMINISCENCES OF 

Bostonians" and the retirement of its head and the 
stellar lights, long brilliant about him, from the stage 
as Bostonians. To that organization more than any 
other, America is indebted for delightful and inspiring 
entertainments of the brightest, most cultured and 
purest school of opera. It was an itinerant conserva- 
tory — clean in thought, high toned in character, 
artistic in its work. 

Is it any wonder that the music-loving public laments 
the death of such an organization and sympathizes with 
the one who was its prime favorite for years? 

Truly "The Bostonians" are no more, but the lights, 
the plaudits, the flowers and the excitement for Henry 
Clay Barnabee did not permit him to say "Farewell!" 
Today, as in days of yore, every bouquet, every criti- 
cism, and every merry tune adds new lustre to his 
eagle eye and helps him to tighten his grip upon his 
staff. The memory of the masterpieces in which he 
took such a prominent part still carries his loving heart 
superior to the inroads and worries of age and sup- 
ports his claim to a niche in the hall of immortality. 

With the rainbows of Hope and Promise hovering 
over him and with sweet pansies and forget-me-nots 
offered by loving friends, he closes his book and de- 
clares, as did the prophets of old, that this life, let it 
be long or short, is but the prefatory chapter of a life 
which is yet to be lived, and which is never to end — 
the initial foreword of an eternal biography. 

G. L. V. 



FLOWERS FROM THE WAYSIDE 



Tribute from Will J. Davis, the prominent theatri- 
cal manager and husband of the late Jessie Bartlett 
Davis : 

November 22, 1911. 
Dear Mr. Varney: 

The most impressive characteristic of my old friend, 
Henry Clay Barnabee, was his unlimited generosity, and 
it was not always wisely displayed. Any hard-luck story, 
particularly from one of his own profession, would surely 
get a quick and usually a generous response from Barnabee. 
And in due course of time the habitual hard luck actor came 
to know that Barnabee was easy. Everybody knew this 
much better than he did himself. I first learned this side 
of his nature when I took the Bostonians on their maiden 
trip to California in the summer of 1889. I noticed that 
anyone in the company in real or supposed need of money 
went to Barnabee. In after years I played the company 
many engagements in Chicago, and then it came under my 
notice that not only members of his own company, but of 
almost every company playing contemporary engagements, 
from the manager down to the humblest members, sought 
for Mr. Barnabee — and never in vain. I have known him 
to give hundreds of dollars to help managers who were 
unable to get out of the city except through his aid. And 
often to managers who couldn't touch me for one hundredth 
part of the money he loaned. Hard luck appealed to him, 
and he never seemed to stop and ascertain whether it was 
an original or habitual appeal. 

437 




438 REMINISCENCES OF 

I have felt, since his retirement from active work on the 
stage that if he only got back the money he had loaned to 
his fellow-players, he would be independent financially. 
And in all this his good wife was with him. Her heart was 
big and her sympathy great. 

It is also my pleasure to pay tribute to him as a friend 

and an artist. Original, quaint and of a class all alone by 

himself, the stage of America will never have another Bar- 

nabee. I have enjoyed his stage work, enjoyed his social 

worth, admired his big heart and will ever enjoy the many 

pleasant recollections his life has brought into mine. That 

he may live to a ripe and lovable old age, and acquire 

new friends every week of his remaining years is the 

wish of 

WILL J. DAVIS. 

From Elbert Hubbard, noted author and lecturer: 

The Boston Ideal Opera Company was playing in Buffalo* 
and Henry Clay Barnabee and half a dozen of his players 
took a run out to East Aurora. They were shown through 
the shop by one of the girls whose work it is to receive visi- 
tors. A young woman of the company sat down at one of 
the pianos and played. I chanced to be near and asked Mr. 
Barnabee if he would not sing, and graciously he answered, 
"Fra Elbertus, I'll do anything that you say." I gave the 
signal that all the workers should quit their tasks and meet 
at the chapel. In five minutes we had an audience of three 
hundred — men in blouses and overalls, girls in big aprons — 
a very jolly, kindly, receptive company. Mr. Barnabee was 
at his best — I never saw him so funny. He sang, danced, 
recited, and told stories for forty minutes. The Roycrofters 
were, of course, delighted. One girl whispered to me as she 
went out, "I wonder what great sorrow is gnawing at Bar- 
nabee's heart that he is so wondrous gay!" 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 439 

From Frank Austin Carle, journalist: 

As one of the public I have known Henry Clay Barnabee 
all my mature life, beginning with some church choir concert 
in my undergraduate days. He has been my valued personal 
friend for near thirty years, and I met him continually from 
the Atlantic to the Pacific through all the brilliant career 
of the Boston Ideals and the Bostonians, from the time of 
"Pinafore" to that of "Robin Hood." 

Nothing in his life sticks in my mind like the peculiar 
and endearing relation between him and his public, which 
for near a generation was the whole American people. No 
mere artistry could command this; no power of entertain- 
ment could sustain it. Above and beyond his delightful 
comedy, his unerring appeal to dramatic sensibility, rose 
the pure human quality of the man, to which everything 
human in his audiences responded. I know of nothing like 
this in the history of the stage. He reversed the primary rule 
of the theater. If he had "lost himself in his part," the public 
would have missed what it loved with laughter, and cherished 
beyond the finest interpretation of the greatest part. 

He was the joy of millions who sat in the theater as one 
sits by the fireside of a friend, loved, not for his rare wit 
and charm, but for the rarer human self. For these he never 
has retired and can never die, while memory holds her seat. 

F. A. CARLE. 

A quaint recollection by Louis C. Elson, noted author 
and lecturer: 

Boston, April 13, 1911. 
George Leon Varney, Esq. : 

Dear Sir, — I have a quaint recollection of Henry C. 
Barnabee in connection with a singular misprint. It occurred 
in the Boston Advertiser many years ago, and was a strange 



440 REMINISCENCES OF 

blending of two different (widely different) items of news. 
It began with an inquest and ended with a reception to the 
Rev. Dr. Savage. The item in question ran as follows: 

"An inquest was held yesterday upon the body of the 
man killed by the train at Knownothing Crossing the day 
before. The first witness was the engineer of the train, who 
testified that he saw the man on the track and blew the whis- 
tle to attract his attention. The man looked up in a dazed 
condition, but did not stir from the rails. The engine 
struck him, killing him instantly. 

"Mr. Barnabee added to the enjoyment of the occasion 
by singing several comic songs." 

By an odd coincidence I was telling this story at a dinner 
of the Apollo Club of Boston some time ago, when just as 
I had ended and the laughter was going on, Mr. Barnabee 
himself entered. Of course there was renewed laughter, and 
when Mr. Barnabee was told of the case he said, "I have 
carried that clipping for years." LOUIS C ELSON 

The following glowing tribute is from the pen of 
Robert Grau, author of "The Stage in the Twentieth 
Century" and other volumes: 

In the forty years wherein I have been identified with the 
field of the theater, I have, of course, come in contact with 
nearly all of the great figures of the stage — while my asso- 
ciation with my deceased brother Maurice gave me an in- 
troduction to practically all of the world's greatest celeb- 
rities in Grand Opera — but among them all I can't recall 
one who impressed me more than did that Grand Old Man 
of light opera, Henry Clay Barnabee. 

I knew Barnabee, too, away back in a period of the 
theater far less propitious than that we are now enjoying. 
In the early 70's the dignity and rectitude now character- 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 441 

izing the amusement field was sadly lacking, but Barnabee 
even in those precarious days stood out as artist and man 
with distinction. In those days this dear old soul was 
presenting an entertainment entitled "A Night with Bar- 
nabee." Oh, ye players of modern times: would that it 
could be in your province to witness the exquisite art and 
superb method with which Barnabee invested his stage 
work four decades ago. He gave practically the entire 
entertainment himself, and the versatility of the man was 
simply amazingly inexhaustible. 

Barnabee was regarded all over the country in this primi- 
tive period in a manner quite difficult for me to describe. 
He drew people to the theater whose presence there attracted 
attention, and it was this phase of his popularity that induced 
his engagement with the famous Boston Ideal Opera Com- 
pany. Barnabee was the great compelling attraction of this 
grand organization as long as its unexampled career endured, 
and when this company years later became the Bostonians, 
"the Grand Old Man" remained its most potent figure. 

Barnabee was wholly self-sacrificing throughout his 
career. Of business he knew absolutely nothing, and this 
was a status which became him truly, for at all times he 
was the most lovable of men, the most charitable and the 
most modest. 

These traits never were so evident as when, seven years 
ago, adversity had begun to hover about him, not that he 
was in want, but the prosperity of the Bostonians had 
ceased. I was at this time securing what are known as 
headliners for vaudeville, and my respect for this great 
figure of the stage was such that I did not seek to bring 
him into vaudeville until it became a moral certainty that 
he would be enticed into the fold by some one who might 
not guide him in the manner I felt was due him. So nego- 
tiations between us were in order. 



442 REMINISCENCES OF 

In all my career in vaudeville where I placed perhaps 
ninety per cent of the greatest attractions during a period 
of ten years, Barnabee was the only star whom it was pos- 
sible for me to secure without bidding or bargaining, and had 
I chosen to do so, I would have been enabled to sign him 
for much less than the $1,100 a week actually paid to him. 
Moreover, Barnabee's artistic traits stood out here, for when 
I told him he could get the same weekly sum for a mono- 
logue, his modesty and a sense of obligation to some of his 
old-time colleagues decided him to use a little company 
and present a little operetta — and let me say it emphatically, 
this was by far the best and most elevating attraction the 
vaudeville stage had had up to that day. But, alas, poor 
Barnabee with the prospect of years of golden prosperity in 
the new field was forced to quit. Misfortune such as has 
seemed to follow him in his later years came in the shape 
of the St. Louis accident, necessitating, in the second week 
of his golden era, the cancellation of his entire tour. I do 
not know what compensation the "Grand Old Man" got 
from the express company, but I have heard it was very 
inadequate — whereas had he called on me, I am sure I could 
have proven great damages — but it would be just like 
Barnabee to avoid me. 

The last time I saw him was in a New York hotel two 
years ago, looking the youngest old man on earth. May he 
live to be one hundred — and if there is one man the stage 
can look up to and honor, it is the Grand Old Man of whom 
I write. 

ROBERT GRAU. 

From Manager Ira C. Stockbridge of Portland: 

"Whenever the Bostonians came here, Barnabee never 
failed to visit me at the earliest opportunity. He was one 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 443 

of the finest men that I ever met, a very prince of good 
fellows, and withal a perfect gentleman. He always had a 
good story or joke to relate; he was always in a happy 
frame of mind. Barnabee had a great many friends in this 
city, and on his visits here he received many warm personal 
attentions. In the summer months he, together with some 
of the other principals of the company, spent some time at 
Bridgton fishing for trout. Barnabee was an enthusiastic 
angler, and came each season to enjoy the sport. 

Jefferson De Angelis, comedian and singer, says, 
among other things: 

I have known Mr. Barnabee for many years, and have 
always found him a charming gentleman, loyal to his friends 
and generous to a fault. His acts of kindness were many, 
of which little was known even by his closest friends. My 
most intimate association with him was during the tour 
of the All Star Gambol of the Lambs, and it gave as much 
amusement to witness his endeavor to be a genuine minstrel. 
He had never blackened up before, and consequently had 
great difficulty in washing the burnt cork from his face and 
hands. He would invariably appear with a large white 
patch either on the back of his neck, his ears, or around his 
eyes, when it should have been all black, and when he 
"washed up," as we say in minstrel parlance, he would have 
black spots showing. We gave two performances a day, 
and when we finished the tour I really think that my old 
friend Barnabee had so much burnt cork all over his body 
that it must have taken a week to get it all off. I well 
remember some of his performances in the old Boston 
Ideal Company and enjoyed them very much. His Pasha 
in "Fatinitza" was excellent. His success in "Robin Hood" 
is too well known even by the present generation for me 



444 REMINISCENCES OF 

to comment on. It is to be regretted that he has retired 
from the theatrical profession. 

Yours truly, 

JEFFERSON De ANGELIS. 

A few lines from Thomas R. Proctor, who has known 
Mr. Barnabee for years : 

My dear Mr. Varney: 

Your letter of the 18th should have had earlier attention, 
but I have been exceedingly busy, as I am sailing for Europe 
on the "Mauretania" August 2d, and shall not get back 
until about the middle of September. I hesitate to say any- 
thing about my old friend Barnabee because our friendship 
goes back so many years and I do not believe that anything 
I might say would interest others, but I have thought of 
two or three things which you might use, but I think they 
had better be carefully edited and submitted to Mr. Bar- 
nabee, and if he wishes to add anything I should certainly 
have no objection. I remember very well as a boy in 1857 
and 1858 in Boston there was a society, which I assume is 
now extinct, called the Mercantile Library Association. 
It was supported largely by the merchants of Boston for 
the benefit of their employees. They had entertainments 
during the winter season such as recitations and small 
plays. Barnabee was always the star and I remember him 
in "Box and Cox" and other light comedies. He was not 
only a good actor, but a fine singer. However, I do not 
know that I had the honor of his acquaintance at that time. 
I became the proprietor of Baggs Hotel December, 1869, 
and very soon after Barnabee appeared at our old Mechanics 
Hall for the first time. To my surprise there was a very 
small audience, but a very appreciative one. He was called 
before the curtain and made a very witty speech. Among 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 445 

other things I remember he said that it was his first appear- 
ance in this city, but he would like to ask some of the prom- 
inent business men present about how much real estate he 
could probably invest in on the proceeds of the entertain- 
ment. The next time he appeared in our new opera house 
before the Mechanics' Association, and the place was 
crowded. I do not believe that Barnabee ever appeared 
before a poor audience after that, and he has been here 
many times. His usual salutation when he arrived was, 
"Friend of my youth, how are you?" He was always my 
personal guest, and it was a great pleasure and privilege to 
entertain him. In 1875 I became proprietor of the Spring 
House, Richfield Springs, and Barnabee was good enough 
to come there on several occasions at considerable incon- 
venience to himself, but always to the very great satisfaction 
of our guests. He always had a large audience for two 
reasons. The entertainment was extremely interesting, 
and there was no charge or collection. I learned early in my 
show business that that was the way to secure a good audi- 
ence. The Rev. Dr. Lothrop of Boston was a regular visitor 
and a great admirer of Barnabee, whom he knew and had 
heard many times in Boston. He was always convulsed 
in laughter whenever Barnabee sang any of his old witty 
songs such as the "Cork Leg," and I remember on one occa- 
sion that the singer said to him: "My young friend, there 
is no cause for suppressed laughter," and the old man was 
shaking his sides, his face almost purple and stamping the 
floor with his cane. 

The last two visits he stayed at my private house and 
seemed to enjoy it very much. We certainly did. It was 
with difficulty that we pulled him away from the open fire 
in time to keep his engagement at the theater. I feel in the 
hurry of departure that I can't say more to you. I can't 
now recall any actor or artist who has given so much pleasure 



446 REMINISCENCES OF 

to people as he, and I am sorry that he has not been better 
rewarded. 

THOMAS R. PROCTOR. 

"My Twig of Sweet Rosemary to Henry C. Barnabee" 
is the ribbon attached to the following tribute from 
Mrs. George D. Morgan (nee Eloise Morgan of "The 
Bostonians") : 

The sublime mantle of comedy never fitted anyone more 
perfectly than Mr. Barnabee. The strong foundation for 
his operatic career was based upon an unusually vigorous 
intellect of wide horizons, innate refinement and the keenest 
sense of humor. Upon this he builded the subtle artistry, 
the towering character studies that placed him pre-eminent 
among American operatic comedians. 

His comedy was effortless — sans contortions, acrobatics, 
or hysterics. Never shall I forget the manner of his entrance 
as the Sheriff of Nottingham in "Robin Hood." It had an 
ingratiating, indolent charm that gripped you and with the 
enfoldment of the character you felt that sense of complete- 
ness and satisfaction that is only inspired by a perfect piece 
of art. 

Sargent's Prophets afford me no keener pleasure than 
my mental pictures of the various characters in which 
I saw Mr. Barnabee appear. They are ever a source of de- 
light; particularly so is the Stage Manager role in "Prince 
Ananias," where we danced a few fantastic steps together. 
The ease with which he mastered those steps and tripped 
them as gaily as any youngster, although he was then at the 
age of sixty-one, was ever to me a source of wonderment 
and cup of brimming joy. 

Among my most highly prized possessions I have two pret- 
tily painted dessert plates presented to Mr. Morgan and me 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



447 



one Christmas before Mrs. Barnabee's death. I have them 
in a box frame with the card of loving sentiment which 
accompanied, as written by Mr. Barnabee: "They are 
reminiscent of our several homes, and have graced our 
table many a time and often." What memories of enjoy- 
able hospitality these awaken of both gifted host and guests. 

On my memory tablets of the Bostonians one thing stands 
forth as a beautiful cameo — Mrs. Barnabee's gentle, loving 
care of her husband. No one little chick ever had more 
brooding care than he from her. Her beautiful, tender eyes 
ever rested upon him, portraying a volume of mute adora- 
tion. She was always with him in the theater, caring for his 
slightest wish and ever ready with his shawl when he made 
his exits. Who knows how many loving prayers she breathed 
over him as she gently placed it around his shoulders? 

Of Mr. Barnabee's great appreciation of his wife, no words 
of mine could adequately picture. His own beautiful 
tribute to her in his "Memoirs" is the clarion note of his life. 

In the wreath of friendships which my heart holds, there 
is no sweeter memory than that of Henry and Clara Bar- 

nabee * ELOISE MORGAN. 



Miss Alice Nielsen, formerly of "The Bostonians," 
now of grand opera fame and considered by some to be 
America's greatest lyric soprano, dips her pen in the 
well of deep affection, adding as she does so: "I speak 
of Mr. Barnabee as I knew and know him and have not 
said half that I feel about him": 

As I endeavor to give expression of my appreciation of Mr. 
Henry Clay Barnabee's remarkable personality, the feeling 
of which I am most distinctly conscious is the irreparable 
blank which the absence of that personality has caused in 



448 REMINISCENCES OF 

the lyric stage of today. From my early childhood I have 
preserved a clear record in my memory of the innumerable 
characters which he made his own and which by sheer force 
of his talent he made into creations which often surpassed 
the conceptions of either author or composer. Although, 
year by year as my childhood crept on I became familiar 
with the constant repetitions of his various interpretations, 
yet such was the versatility of his talent that I cannot 
recollect a sensation of either weariness or tedium. Can 
one say more of an artist than that he never repeated him- 
self? 

I should require too much space if I would attempt to 
quote in detail the various characters which I watched him 
portray, but of the many which glow most deeply in my 
memory is his impersonation of the Sheriff of Nottingham 
in "Robin Hood." I can still see him in the second act 
disguised as a tinker who, overcome by the influence of 
liquor, endeavors to exit by a door which he only reaches 
after some of the most humorous and circuitous efforts 
which it has ever been my good fortune to see on any stage. 

I hope that my opinion of Mr. Barnabee as an artist will 
not be considered biased because I bear him the deepest 
affection as my stage father. He, together with his dear 
lamented wife, were like parents to me, and I shall ever 
think of them with the feelings of a devoted daughter. 

ALICE NIELSEN. 

Miss Helen Bertram recalls her days with. "The 
Bostonians," "a feeble effort," as she puts it, "to 
express loving thoughts": 

Dear Uncle Barney, — Do you remember how I enjoyed 
your stories, and, generally after gasping with laughter, said, 
"How lovely!" and settled down to listen to another story, 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 449 

which you, one of the greatest story-tellers in the world, 
gladly kept on to amuse your friends? 

I have only the tenderest remembrances of the three 
years as your prima donna (soprano) with the "Bostonians." 
And now I have this chance to pay a tribute to my former 
manager and friend, the Sheriff of Nottingham. 

"I am the Sheriff of Nottingham, 
My eye is like the eagle's" 

is the song that rings in my ears. When we quit the stage 
we have only the memory of the songs we have sung and 
the parts we have played. And so my memory lovingly holds 
in its remembrance my days — mine and Little Rosina with 
Uncle and Aunty Barney. My warmest wish is that you 
find these years filled with contentment and the same happy 
memories. 

HELEN BERTRAM. 

Pauline Hall, the operatic singer, and now appearing 
as prima donna in the revival of Gilbert & Sullivan's 
productions, writes in a note to the editor: 

I cannot say too many lovely sweet things of the many 
charities of Henry Clay Barnabee. The same holds true of 
his wife. Anything you would say about them I would be 
only too happy to endorse. 

PAULINE HALL. 

Jessie Bartlett Davis!* How many good things she 
might have contributed to the pages of this volume 
if she were alive! The greatest of all prima donnas, it 
is to be regretted that she is not among us to turn 
the pages of the life story of the one she loved so dearly. 
"If she had had no wonderful gift," writes one, "one 

♦Mrs. Davis died May 14, 1905.— Editor. 



450 REMINISCENCES OF 

would have loved her just the same for her tender, 
loyal, generous, sunshiny nature. She was a sweet, 
loving wife and mother, and although a great singer 
comes only once in a lifetime, the world was all the 
happier, all the better, all the more faithful to itself 
because when the gift of song was so royally bestowed, 
it was given to a pure, good, true-hearted womanly 
woman." 

From Mr. Barnabee's cherished keepsakes, the editor 
takes the liberty of copying the following. It is right 
from the heart of the great singer and should be accorded 
a place among these tributes: 

Narragansett Hotel, 
Providence, R. I. 

October 14th, '98. 
Our dear Barney, — If I should use up all the paper in the 
hotel, I could not begin to tell you how we all miss you. 
It is not the "Bostonians" in any respect without you. And 
the "dear public" gives all of us the blackest looks, as much 
as to say, "How dare you sing 'Promise Me' without Bar- 
nabee in the cast?" 

I know you will be well and the smartest chick in the nest 
next Monday night. Everybody in your employ join me 
in sending you our deepest love. 
With my best love to both of you, 

Your JESSIE. 



The late Fanny Janauschek, the great German 
actress, once wrote to Barnabee after witnessing one 
of his operas: 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 451 

The singing was splendid — so the acting. Your artistic 
performance reminds me so much of our good old days. 
With heartiest wishes for your prosperity, believe me, 
Ever your sincere admirer, 

JANAUSCHEK. 

. In one of his splendid personal letters to "the Grand 
Old Man," Francis Wilson, the noted comedian and 
actor, says, among other things: 

You have no idea how much you are respected and loved 
by your profession and the public for the infinite and abun- 
dant pleasure you gave over so many years, the happiness 
you wrought by the skill and earnestness of your art, and 
the gentle, loving character of your nature. 

All hail to you, Barnabee! God bless you and preserve 
to you for many years the radiance of your disposition. 
Ever sincerely, 

FRANCIS WILSON. 

The following interesting lines are from Eugene 
Cowles, the original Will Scarlet in "Robin Hood," 
and one of the most popular bassos in America today. 

Dear Sir, — 

It is very kind of you to allow me to add any words (poor 
as they may be) to the many tributes which you will receive 
regarding my old friend and manager, Henry Clay Barnabee. 

Mr. Barnabee and Mr. W. H. MacDonald engaged me 
when I was a very young man to sing the leading basso 
roles in the famous Bostonians. I met them at a Press Club 
concert in Chicago, which led to a conference with them 
shortly after and the engagement. 

I was a member of the organization for ten years, and can 



452 REMINISCENCES OF 

safely say that I know Mr. Barnabee as well as any man 
living knows him. He is a man of rugged honesty, peculiar 
temper and temperament, kindhearted and generous to a 
fault; as alive to what is going on in the world at seventy- 
seven as he was twenty years ago, and this in spite of physi- 
cal disability caused by two serious accidents, which would 
have placed anyone with a less rugged constitution and a 
feebler will in an invalid chair or on crutches. 

Mr. Barnabee has been blamed, as were the other owners 
of the "Bostonians," for not accumulating a large "nest- 
egg" in the time of their wonderful prosperity and the fact 
that they did not must seem strange and almost unpardon- 
able to many. However, I think I can explain in a great 
measure their failure to do so, and in speaking of the acts 
of the "Bostonians," I am referring to the policy of Mr. 
Barnabee, for he was always the senior manager. 

First: They were the first managers to give encourage- 
ment to native composers, and always had faith in them; 
so that while they had two successes, "Robin Hood" by Reg- 
inald De Koven, and the "Serenade" by Victor Herbert, 
they put on a great many pieces by American composers 
which were absolute failures, and anyone who knows the 
theatrical business can give you an idea of how much may be 
lost on a comic opera production, which falls short of success. 

Second: They were extremely generous not only to 
personal friends, but to members of the theatrical profession. 
I know of more than one, or two, or three cases where they 
provided backing for young actors who appeared in the 
galaxy of stars and who failed, perhaps through no fault 
of their own. On more than one occasion they sent entire 
companies to New York from San Francisco. These com- 
panies were stranded; closed in San Francisco by unscrupu- 
lous eastern managers, and without saying anything to the 
members of their own company even, Barnabee and his 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



453 



partners paid railroad fares for the stranded actors and sent 
them to New York. 

Third: I was with the company during the disastrous 
season of 1893-4, when the theatrical business was at a low 
ebb and cash was a scarcity. Yet Mr. Barnabee never al- 
lowed a Saturday to go by with a single salary unpaid, 
even if he was forced to borrow money on personal collateral 
to fill out the pay roll. 

Fourth: They never gave anyone a "two weeks' notice." 
In the cases of numerous singers engaged at the opening 
of the season who failed to make good, the management 
carried them uncomplainingly all the season from Maine to 
California and back, and handed them their envelopes every 
Saturday until summer (or death) released them. 

These are some of the reasons why money didn't stick 
to Henry Clay Barnabee, and while these reasons would 
probably be ridiculed by the theater manager of today, 
they are to me evidences of his kind heart and his 
Americanism. 

Professionally, Mr. Barnabee was in a class by himself; 
it seems to me his chief hold upon the audiences was due 
to his clear-cut enunciation. Every syllable of song or dia- 
logue was crisp and distinct. To this was added an extremely 
comical physiognomy and the keenest sense of humor. Of 
course many of your readers will recall his Lord Allcash 
in "Fra Diavolo," Pasha in "Fatinitza," Chrysos in 
"Pygmalion," and Sheriff in "Robin Hood." In each of 
these roles, as well as in many others, he always gave an 
elegant impersonation, quite apart from low comedy; 
always Bostonian, always Barnabee, but always good. 

His sense of humor referred to above helped him through 
many annoyances in his professional and managerial days, 
and now this comical twist of his nature enables him to face 
old age and infirmity with serenity. 



454 REMINISCENCES OF 

His father and mother lived to be very, very old, and I 
sincerely hope he will follow their example. 

With kind regards and appreciation of your work, I 
remain, 

Yours very sincerely, 

EUGENE COWLES. 

William E. Philp, the English tenor, formerly of 
"The Bostonians," sends in the following appreciation 
to be included among the offerings: 

Early in the summer of 1896 I was singing in the original 
production of "The Geisha" at Daly's Theater in London. 
As there were a number of uncommonly good things on the 
London stage at that time, Mr. Barnabee in his annual 
English visit had left "The Geisha" until the last week of 
his stay. On this evening when I finished my first song, 
he paid me the great compliment of setting aside his right- 
eous protest against program selling, and sent for one of these 
luxuries to learn my name. The next morning Mr. Bar- 
nabee came to see me, and asked me if I would go out to 
America with him to sing "Robin Hood." I replied that I 
would certainly do so if Mr. George Edwardes would consent 
to release me from my contract with him. This having been 
done, I sailed for America that week, and so began my work 
with "The Bostonians" and my warm and unswerving friend- 
ship with Henry Clay Barnabee, a friendship that has grown 
with the passing of years, and has been a strong factor in my 
professional life, and of the highest value to me personally. 

And what a company was "The Bostonians"! There has 
never been another like it, in America or in England. The 
production was always perfect. Every unity preserved, no 
one person exalted at the expense of another role, and the 
highest possible standard generally sustained. We shall 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 455 

never again see its like, I fear. It was always a deep regret 
to me that London never saw "Robin Hood" produced by 
"The Bostonians" as they only could present it. How pit and 
stalls alike would have enjoyed the Sheriff's unctuous humor 
and his incomparable fun-making! Clever as Barnabee 
was in "The Serenade," and he certainly was screamingly 
funny, his second-act work in "Robin Hood" has always 
seemed to me quite the best comedy I ever saw on any 
stage. And could anyone sing and act the "Cork Leg" 
as did "Barney"? Never. 

What a record it is to have given such fine whole-souled 
amusement to generations of play-goers through so many 
years! 

Mr. Barnabee has a peculiar genius for friendship, and 
he gives his affectionate interest most freely. If a man is 
down on his luck, there is always warm encouragement. One 
goes on with confidence increased by his kindly words and val- 
uable advice, and one's success is not complete until the vet- 
eran dean of comic opera has spoken his "Well done, my boy!" 

Long life to him, say we all, and may peace and happiness, 
and the assurance of the love of his friends crown his days! 

WILLIAM E. PHILP. 

Mr. Tom Karl, whose relations with Barnabee date 
back to the days and nights of "Pinafore," drops an 
anchor into friendship's sea for his Admiral: 

Mr. Henry C. Barnabee has given in his "Reminiscences" 
so charming, entertaining, and pleasing an account of his 
long and famous career before the public that it seems 
superfluous to add more than the tribute of one who, through 
many years of close personal friendship, admired always 
Mr. Barnabee's splendid traits of character: a friend always, 
who endured to the end, kind to a fault, and generous — 




456 REMINISCENCES OF 

never with a thought of anything that might accrue to him 
from it or looking for a quid ■pro quo. 

The years with the "Boston Ideals" and "The Bostonians" 
brought more and more of artistic work together. To 
Barnabee it brought praise — justly earned praise, for his 
refined comedy work which was a refreshing contrast to the 
clowning which seemed to be always associated with the 
beautiful light operas then in vogue. 

On my return from California, two years ago, we again 
became associated in a work before the public, frequently 
called the "Barnabee and Karl Evenings." In Boston, 
Springfield, Utica, Syracuse and other places, we received 
an ovation quite equal to the old days in opera. Mr. Bar- 
nabee's memory at this time enabled him to give greater 
pleasure than ever in a revival of old songs, finely rendered 
poems and recitations. We offered duets and presented a 
most amusing and clever musical sketch, arranged by Mr. 
Barnabee, in which we both had fine opportunities. Mr. 
Barnabee often gave vent to his feelings by remarking, 
"These fine audiences of old and new friends, and the way 
they receive us with such enthusiasm, mean more than money 
could ever buy." And I will never forget the receptions 
after the entertainments where so many old friends wanted 
to take us by the hand. 

Words cannot adequately express all that I would say, 
but the days with dear "Barney" and his most lovely wife 
(whom everybody adored) were among the happiest during 
my whole career in America. 

This is but a poor tribute, but I can only say with the 

poet Tom Moore: 

I give you all I can — no more, 
Though poor the offering be. 

Faithfully yours, 

TOM KARL. 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 457 

The following letter is one addressed to Mr. Barnabee 
from Mr. "Jack" Barnes, an English actor of fine 
reputation, who has been in this country several times 
and for several seasons was a valuable member of 
Joseph Jefferson's Company: 

Dear Sir: I had the pleasure of being at the Standard 
Theater last evening to see and hear "Robin Hood." Be- 
lieving it must be gratifying to an artist to know that an 
experienced critic approves of the rendition of an important 
character, I take this early opportunity to say that your 
performance was one of the most perfect I have ever seen. 
Your singing, your speaking, your bearing, your graceful 
dancing, your acting in every detail was faultless. You have 
a refinement of fun and natural ready wit, and, while it 
compels laughter, it will never offend the most refined and 
cultured people. 

Sincerely your friend, 

BARNES. 

A feeling tribute from Henry A. Barkis: 

It is with never failing pleasure and satisfaction that 
I look back to the old days — the good old splendid days — 
of "The Bostonians." They stood for something that was 
well worth while. They touched a chord that was deeper 
and truer than any of their fellows ever did. 

To the good old "King of Comic Opera," whom I am 
pleased and proud to count as my dear personal friend, I 
am ever ready to do homage as a loyal subject. His reign 
is not over, nor will it ever be, in the hearts of those who 
were privileged to know his influence as an artist and man. 
All this is very trite. It has been said by so many others, 
but it may not have been said by any who feel it more 




458 REMINISCENCES OF 

strongly and sincerely. The good things that men do for 
their own age and generation live on forever, I think — and 
their influence must be handed along in popular appreciation 
and national taste that has been pushed along so many 
pegs by their beneficent art. 

I wonder if the greatest satisfaction comes to you now 
in the knowledge and realization of what you have done for 
the delight of untold thousands, or in the standard that 
you have set upon the art you have served so splendidly, or 
in the place you have won, enshrined in the hearts of so many 
men and women whom you never even knew, but to whom 
you were so honored and beloved beyond all others in the 
world of opera? Whichever may be the greatest, there must 
be joy in them all. 

HENRY A. BARKIS. 

University Club, Providence. 

The following is a comment from the famous man 
and wit of California, the late George T. Bromley, 
known far and wide as "Uncle" George Bromley. It 
is transcribed by Miss Marion Smith, granddaughter 
of the noted man, from her recollection of a letter dic- 
tated by him after reading the first few chapters of the 
reminiscences : 

My dear Mr. Barnabee: 

I cannot begin to tell you how much I am enjoying the 
reading of your "Reminiscences." They are so full of good 
things, and recall so much that I had almost forgotten. 
Your description of the "Old Home Week" in Portsmouth 
recalls the similar occasions held at Norwich, Connecticut, 
my old home. I had fully expected to be present on such 
an occasion, and enjoy with the present and former residents 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 



459 



the delightful home gathering of those I knew so long ago. 
So many of those you mention as attending at Portsmouth 
are familiar to me — particularly Benjamin P. Shillaber, 
creator of Mrs. Partington, who was out here in California, 
and whose articles made him so well known everywhere. 
The name of Thomas Starr King also brings up thoughts 
of early days in California, for he was the first Unitarian 
minister in California, as well as in San Francisco. 

In some respects our schooldays are alike, for my recol- 
lections though vague on most points are very clear on the 
subject that I "crept like a snail, unwillingly," and our 
schoolmasters used the same method of instilling knowledge 
by the use of the ferule. 

Your story of the barrel of molasses upsetting on the 
street recalls an equally sad experience of my own in which 
I also landed in it. Every boy in the neighborhood had his 
fill of molasses for a time at least. 

I am looking forward with much interest to the publishing 
of the rest of the memoirs, for I know that with the beginning 
which I have heard (the book was read aloud to Uncle 
George), the rest will be brimful of interest. I only wish 
I could read it faster than once a month, but in this way 
I can at least be thankful, as it will last longer. 

God bless you, my dear friend, and bring you all success. 
Most sincerely yours, 

"UNCLE" GEORGE BROMLEY. 



From a personal letter received from Arthur Mal- 
colm Dow, we extract a few lines: 

I always loved to hear Myron Whitney sing, but there 
is no one who ever could make the thrills run down my back 
as you could when you sang "The Three Fishers." Do you 
remember Mrs. Celia Thaxter telling you "Never for God's 



460 REMINISCENCES OF 

sake sing that song down here again," after you had given 
it at some place like Gloucester or Portsmouth? I remember 
Marie Wainwright saying once about thirty years ago that 
she never heard anyone put the soul and pathos into that 
same old song that you did when you sang it at the cottage 
in Nahant one Saturday night back in the early eighties. 
It seems to me that you ought to incorporate those two 
items in your reminiscences as they came from people of 
discernment, and I always like to have tribute paid to your 
tragic as well as your humorous talents. 

From Harry B. Smith, dramatic author. Author: 
"Robin Hood," "Rob Roy," "The Little Corporal," 
"The Fortune Teller," "The Serenade," and other 
librettos. 

As a collector of books, I have assembled on my shelves 
all the biographical records of the great players of the past. 
These volumes are enriched with the autographs of the 
famous actors and quaint old engravings of tragedians and 
comedians "in their habit as they lived" — Garrick and 
Woffington, Kemble and Kean, Kitty Clive and Mrs. Sid- 
dons; Talma and Rachael, the Jeffersons and the Booths; 
all the great names whose triumphs are a legend. The 
painter, the poet, the sculptor, all leave their creations to the 
world to prove their artistry; but the actor "carves his 
image in snow." The phrase is Lawrence Barrett's. All 
that remains of a great actor's triumphs is what is written 
in a book. So it is fortunate that so many have written 
about the players, and better still, that so many actors 
have written of themselves; for they write with grace and 
humor. Surely one of the most delightful of all books is 
the Autobiography of Joseph Jefferson. That my dear old 
friend Barnabee is to write his memoirs should fill with 



HENRY CLAY BARNABEE 461 

delightful anticipation all who know his humor as a story- 
teller and his fund of anecdote and experiences. Like Jef- 
ferson's book, it will remain as a record of an epoch in 
American theatrical history. Surely all who have seen Mr. 
Barnabee in his characterizations must hold him in grateful 
recollection. Who can forget his Sheriff of Nottingham? It 
deserves a full length portrait in the theatrical Hall of Fame 
beside Jefferson's Rip, Raymond's Colonel Sellers, and 
Florence's Captain Cuttle. 

HARRY B. SMITH. 



SEP 8 1913 






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